And Now You're Mine
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: The unfortunate next-door-neighbor of Dr. Oliver Thredson picks the wrong night to engage him in an erotic game of cat and mouse.
1. Chapter 1

She delicately unclipped first one faux pearl earring, then the other. They rested in her palms like small smooth pieces of candy. She rolled them together, a careful nightly ritual, before laying them to rest on the shiny wooden surface of her nightstand.

Marilyn let the waves of pleasure roll through her lithe body as she slowly moved through the motions of readying for bed. The weed she'd scored tonight was primo, just excellent, man, and besides this fact her mind could manage little else. As a cocktail waitress she'd had many opportunities to buy good green but the expertly-rolled joints the busboy had slipped her this evening simply outshined all the other strains she'd tried. She was flying, man, flying _high._

She began to hum under her breath a song she'd heard on the radio on the way to work that afternoon, a seductive tune by Lesley Gore that just recently seemed to be everywhere at once. Marilyn didn't have all the words but the melody was intoxicating, the sound of her voice a solid pleasant hum in her skull as she set to work fishing for bobby pins in the tangle of her thick blonde hair.

Her eyes flitted towards her open window and she stopped, momentarily considering what this meant. The weed had fogged up her head _(wonderfully)_ and it took several seconds before Marilyn giggled. She had nearly undressed right in view of her neighbor's living room; how embarrassing! How silly of her to forget!

Marilyn's neighbor was a young doctor – a handsome doctor – a fact her mother didn't seem to want her to overlook. The old woman desperately hoped her daughter would settle down and get married and "stop rubbing against male drunkards for money like a common prostitute", but Marilyn breezily ignored her protests. Those drunkards put bills in her purse; those bills bought her beautiful things and sweet stinky pot, it was all she needed in the prime of her life. She knew the babies could (and probably would) come later, but her late twenties she planned to live to the fullest.

Lost in these thorny thoughts about her mother's constant disappointment in her, Marilyn scarcely noticed the first slow movement behind her neighbor's glass windowpane. She brought herself back to the present by rubbing the palms of her hands along the back of her neck, then down her collarbone, and finally across the firm tops of her breasts. Her own touch set her senses ablaze and once again she marveled at the quality of the green that slow dopey busboy had pressed into her eager fingers.

And, quite suddenly, there he was.

Not the busboy – her neighbor. In her current state she couldn't recall his name but there he stood, tall and slender, framed like a pretty picture in the center of his living room window. He was staring straight at her through the lenses of thick black-rimmed glasses.

Marilyn, unsure of what to do, caught directly in his gaze like a deer in the headlights, simply stared at him for a moment. His crisp white shirt was rolled at the elbows, the buttons at his neck unfastened and the collar hanging loose. He held a glass tumbler of brown liquid _(scotch?) _so naturally in the palm of one hand it seemed permanently fixed there. The doctor almost seemed not to move for quite a long time before he lifted a lit cigarette to his perfect lips and inhaled deeply.

Her instincts told her to be a lady – tip her head towards him, demure, then draw the curtains closed – but she couldn't force her body into action. Instead Marilyn found herself raking his body over with her eyes, her gaze all over him like the small sticky hands of children. The pot had left her unbelievably aroused but she had assumed she'd take care of herself like any night she didn't give in to the advances of her sloppy male patrons at the bar. This man, he was different, she could tell. It was so apparent by his stance, his catlike grace, the somehow alluring way he kept stirring the ice cubes in his drink with a quick movement of his long-fingered hand.

Maybe it was the drug. Maybe it was the unwanted intrusion of her mother's expectations on her previously peaceful thoughts. Maybe it was how every time he pursed his lips to take a drag on his cigarette she could picture them on her most private of places. Whatever it was, Marilyn smiled, her hand still resting coquettishly on the swell of her breasts, and let her fingers trace a delicate path along her curves.

The young handsome doctor her mother so hoped would turn Marilyn into an honest women simply stared, expression unchanging, as she found the back of her dress and the tiny zipper at its crest. She grasped it and pulled, slowly. A smile split her lips and she wasn't sure if it looked seductive or insane but it was too late to turn back now.

He took a sip of his drink. She let go of the zipper then felt the silky flutter of her favorite dress as it slid down around her waist and hit the floor with hardly any sound at all.

The doctor took a final sip of his drink and set it down, empty, on a coffee table behind him. He faced her again. He took another drag of his cigarette. He waited.

Marilyn's heart was pounding, her body thrumming. She was undressing in her bedroom window for a stranger. A handsome stranger, yes, oh god was he handsome, but still, the audacity of it. The thrill and terror of being so naughty. What Mother would think!

She felt her head loll back as she brought her hands slowly down, circling her bra-bound breasts, trailing along her flat stomach. It felt wonderful but she wanted _his_ hands, those long-fingered hands that no doubt knew just how to move in a woman's hot secret place.

Marilyn heard herself moan softly as she unhooked her bra, urged on by the sensations of the pot and her own sinful thoughts. It fell away from her like nothing, exposing her breasts to the cool October air. Her nipples hardened pleasurably and a shiver rolled through her very core. She opened her eyes to see him, to see what the doctor thought of the show, and felt a smack of shock.

He was gone.

The light in his living room was still on; she could even see the glass tumbler sweating condensation on his coffee table. But the young doctor was nowhere to be seen.

Her face burned immediately, furiously. Of course he hadn't been interested in her lewd display. Marilyn suddenly felt as cheap and foolish as her mother always tried to make her seem.

Moments passed. She waited, breath caught in her throat, staring dumbly into the empty living room across the way. Perhaps he had only stepped away. Perhaps he was coming back.

Marilyn could hear crickets singing sweetly somewhere in the backyard. Cars passed by her house, yellow headlamps throwing shadows across the siding of her neighbor's solid little bungalow. She stared at the melting ice in his glass until she could bear the embarrassment no longer.

She turned from her own window, desperately seeking something to cover her shame with, and there he was.

The doctor was in the doorway of her bedroom, his tall frame even more powerful close-up. He had abandoned his cigarette at some point and now stared hungrily at her, his long-fingered hands flexing and unflexing with no real purpose.

Before Marilyn could say a word he advanced on her, his hard lithe body moving her own back against the bed. She could not have struggled if she wanted to _(and she did not want to)_.

He pressed his mouth forcefully against hers, his deft tongue parting her lips to explore inside. The doctor tasted faintly of smoke and whiskey, a combination that somehow caused the fire between her legs to burn even brighter. Marilyn spread her thighs for him as he bore persistently down on her.

She could feel his erection inside his neatly pressed black pants, insistent, almost desperate. Before she could set to work on the button of his fly the young doctor brought his mouth down to her breast, took hold of one pebbly nipple, and began rolling it back and forth between his lips.

Marilyn melted into his touch like ice cream in July, scarcely aware of the reality of the situation. This man was a stranger who had let himself into her house. There was a murderer of women on the loose - but no, that man had been caught, that bad man was Kit Walker and he was in Briarcliff and _this _man was doing things to her with his mouth that slowly shut out the protestations in her addled brain.

She raked her fingers through his thick black hair, reveling in the way it broke free from the confines of its carefully-sculpted style. The doctor made a sound of pleasure against her skin and moved his hips on hers.

He snaked one long-fingered hand slowly up her chest and closed it gently around her neck - not too hard, no, just enough to apply pressure and make Marilyn's head spin. Using it as leverage he drew back from her, positioning his tall frame above her small one on the bed, staring down at her through the glinting lenses of his black-rimmed glasses.

It was in this moment Marilyn felt something may be wrong. He gazed down at her, chest heaving, that one strong hand still wrapped around her neck. Something unnamable fluttered through her on dark wings, leaving a mild sense of panic in its wake. The doctor wet his lips. Marilyn took in a breath.

Then he moved forward and recaptured her mouth with his. She found herself intoxicated once again, pulling desperately at the buttons of his clean pressed shirt, aching to feel his skin against hers now, now, _right now._

Marilyn could feel him squeezing her neck gently as though testing the muscles there to see what she could take. It felt good, but it also made her nervous, so she moved for the buckle on his pants to divert his attention.

The doctor watched intently as she released his straining erection from its prison. She wrapped her fingers around his pulsing length and guided him towards her hips, pulling aside her black silk panties with her free hand. He bucked against her touch, closed his eyes, and sucked air between his teeth in a loud hiss. Marilyn was watching her cool, collected neighbor slowly devolve into a ravenous beast and she was fascinated by it.

He slammed his hips against hers, entering her, filling her to the hilt. The suddenness of this caused Marilyn to gasp aloud and sink her nails into the smooth firm skin of his shoulders. Her head was swimming in a fog of drugs and lust. She was dimly aware of the soft mewling sounds escaping her as the doctor moved liquidly atop her, his thumb pressed firm on the base of her throat.

She was lost inside her own body, a prisoner to the sensations and the stranger in her bed.

Marilyn felt her release approaching and was ready to surrender when she saw him reach into the sagging pocket of his half-removed pants. Without missing a beat, the doctor continued to ride her towards his own orgasm even as he produced a small syringe full of clear liquid.

Lightheaded from his grip around her throat and consumed by the fire in her loins, Marilyn tumbled over the edge of ecstasy, utterly unable to stop him from injecting the long thin needle into a vein in her neck. As he pressed the plunger she heard him moan, felt his hips pump harder and a slow warmth spread between her legs.

She saw herself reflected in the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses and slowly drifted into darkness, still coming, still wrapped around him, still not entirely sure what had just taken place.

The doctor waited until she floated into full unconsciousness before pulling himself from her, weak-legged and spent, to sit at the edge of the bed. He took a moment to compose himself, then slid the empty syringe back into his pocket and set to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Her eyes began to flutter open. It was a slow, deliberate struggle – Marilyn felt as though there were weights attached to her lids – but eventually she managed.

She gazed dopily around the room, scanning the area for familiar landmarks, something, _anything _that would give her a solid foothold of recognition. Anything that would tell her where she was, and why.

The room was mostly white, stark clean tiles of porcelain running along the floor and walls. She was surrounded by a clear plastic curtain but somehow in a bed as well…? Her own mind doubted this conclusion yet her fingers began to move deliberately against the cool sheets, feeling them carefully, studying their obvious existence and what it meant.

There were steps echoing upstairs. They crossed from one end of the ceiling to the other, pacing.

Breathing heavily through her nose, Marilyn urged her body into motion. She willed herself to get to her feet, to stand and leave this horribly stark white room, but to her horror she found that she could wiggle her fingertips and little else. She flexed her fingers once, desperately, then her hands fell back against the bed exhausted.

All at once there were footsteps at the top of the stairs leading to her room; they moved briskly, making a sharp poignant sound above her until they descended into the vast white area where she lay. The doctor hurried into her field of vision, and the very sight of him caused Marilyn's head to spin. She recalled his body – hard, lithe, pumping against her own – then her thoughts blurred into unrecognizable shapes, colors, feelings.

"Oh," he said pleasantly, noticing her open blue eyes as they scanned his entrance, "you're awake." Quick as a cat he unbuttoned the crisp cuffs of his clean white shirt, deft and all-business, ready to examine Marilyn's prone form. She tried to cry out or move away but the only thing that escaped her was a quiet whimper that went unnoticed.

The doctor gripped her limp wrist with two fingers and held, feeling for her pulse, his brow furrowed with thought as he compared the beat of her terrified heart to the hands on his watch. After a moment, he released her and smiled. Everything seemed to be as it should; the doctor began stroking her hair carefully, his eyes finally fixed on hers.

"I know you're afraid," he said evenly, as if this was the most natural conversation, "and I know you're confused. The drugs will wear off eventually, but you have to listen."

Marilyn tried to struggle and found that her greatest effort produced only a single tear from her left eye. The young doctor extended his hand towards her cheek and wiped away the drop tenderly with his thumb.

"Please," he begged softly, "don't fight me. Not this time. It'll be different this time."

She stared at him, stricken, afraid to do much else. He had done… _something_ to her and now he planned to do much worse. She had to escape.

He worked the pad of his thumb slowly over her cheek, caressing her skin, applying just enough pressure to make Marilyn aware of the power he held in his hands.

"This time," he repeated, voice quiet but firm, "will be different."

The doctor turned to the IV stand near her bed and checked its levels, making sure his patient was being kept at the right dosage. He tapped the needle at the fold of her arm then looked back to her face, satisfied.

"I needed to be sure there was something to keep you calm. They're always so hysterical, no matter how tight I've strapped them down. I can never get them to behave." Marilyn could barely follow his words as the mystery drug flowed through her system. It left her weak as a moth covered in rainwater, sluggish and suggestible.

"But look at how well you're doing so far!" He was genuinely pleased with her; a beaming smile shone down from his handsome face, shadowed only by the harsh white lights of the basement. The doctor ran his palm over the blonde hair spread across her pillow, capturing strands of it in his fingers to smooth over with his thumb. "You're being so good. Not like the others. I'm proud of you."

He caught her eyes and bared his teeth in a grin that made Marilyn both weak with terror and warm between the legs.

"I've chosen right this time," the doctor assured himself.

He slipped away from her with fluid grace, running a sink nearby. The sound made her wildly nervous and she tried to trash off the bed; all she managed was a weak flip of her wrists. The doctor washed his hands and hummed a quiet tune to himself. Another tear slipped down Marilyn's cheek.

"Doctor," she finally managed through numb lips. Her voice was weak and haggard, but it caught his attention.

He moved back towards her, quick, catlike. He settled on the edge of the plush bed and took her face in his hands.

_"Oliver,"_ he corrected gently. "You can just call me _Oliver."_

All at once the memories came back to her – the sweetly quiet neighbor, his position of prestige at various institutions, the name her mother had forced in her ear on many occasions: Oliver, Oliver, _Oliver._

Oliver Thredson. The man who lived next door.

"Oliver," she croaked, and the sound made his lips spread into a wide white-toothed smile. The florescent lights above them glinted off the lenses of his glasses as he kept her face cradled in his palms like something precious.

"Yes, Marilyn?"

"It's… it's not too late," she finally managed, the words rolling slow off her tongue like heavy pebbles. Whatever hung in the IV bag near the bed was keeping her sedated and made speech nearly impossible, but she was forcing herself to break through the fog. "You can… just let me go, I won't tell anyone–"

Dr. Thredson made a quiet hushing noise and placed his thumb over her lips. He shook his head back and forth, slowly, no.

"Please," Marilyn begged, the word deadened by his touch.

He repeated the motion. _No._

She tried to cry, a weak whimpery sound, but found herself unable to produce tears. In her terror Marilyn began scanning the white-tiled room for details to remember, things she could tell the police when she had escaped. There was a small window where daylight filtered through at the far corner, a long workbench to her left, a wall above this covered in shiny metal tools with sharp points…

Marilyn felt her chest begin to hitch with the sudden and complete onset of animal panic. All at once it seemed as if there was no air in this room, perhaps she would just asphyxiate and die right now and that would be the end of her.

Dr. Thredson released his hold on her face to adjust something on the IV near her bed. A blessed wave of relief flowed through her body, slowing her ragged breath and relaxing her stiffened muscles. The attack subsided and Marilyn lay still on the bed, her limbs loose and watery.

"You shouldn't upset yourself like that," he murmured, looking somewhat disappointed in her. "You're going to need your energy."

This statement was ominous but she couldn't quite grasp it; her lids felt heavy again. The doctor took hold of the bedsheets and drew them away from her body, exposing a white cotton nightdress she'd never seen before. There were little pink rosebuds embroidered along the collar. It was not something she would choose for herself, Marilyn noted hazily, and let loose a breathless little laugh at nothing in particular.

"You're going to be very happy here," Dr. Thredson reassured her as he inched the nightgown up over her hips, and she was mildly surprised to see she wasn't wearing underwear. "I'm going to do things differently. It won't be like with Lana. It won't get spoiled. Because you're not like her. Right?" His desperate stare told Marilyn to nod, so she did. This was the correct answer. Oliver beamed down at her like a happy child, clearly quite pleased that things were going so well.

He spread her naked thighs and sighed at the sight of her womanhood. She couldn't summon the strength to struggle or scream and so Marilyn just stared at him, a mouse caught in the paws of a hungry cat.

"I've left a note for your dear mother," Dr. Thredson said in a strangely even voice as he began to stroke the folds between her legs with one gentle finger. She jerked against his touch, the sudden intrusion both upsetting and somehow exhilarating all at once. "I've seen her coming and going from your house. She seems like a nice woman. Very… involved in your life. You don't know how lucky you were to have had a mother like that."

Marilyn felt hot tears pushing behind her eyes at the thought of her mother, the woman she'd so despised such a short time ago. The way he spoke seemed so final that she realized she very well might not ever see her mother again.

These thoughts broke apart into jagged pieces as the doctor inserted one strong finger inside her and pumped slowly, in and out, stimulating her to the very core.

"I wrote that you've run away to Hollywood," he told her gently. "Your mother will think you've gone to become an actress. It would suit you." She could scarcely comprehend what he had said; his deft fingers would be her undoing.

Dr. Thredson noted how faithfully her hips followed his touch and smiled.

"You won't have to degrade yourself in that disgusting place again. No more serving beers to sloppy apes who are too drunk and stupid to recognize you for what you are. _I'll_ take care of you from now on."

A slow heat bloomed in her loins as the doctor slipped another finger inside, making a come-hither motion. Marilyn's hips nearly lifted from the bed and she groaned weakly. She had been right about his hands, it seemed.

"And, in time," he said, his voice dropping low, "you'll learn to take care of me."

She was almost there, almost coming, she tried to force him deeper inside but Dr. Thredson instead withdrew, leaving her trembling and unsatisfied.

Marilyn watched dumbly as he sucked his fingers clean of her juices, then smiled.

"We should take it slow," the doctor said in the tone of one consoling a concerned patient. "No need to rush. We have all the time in the world."

And with that he got to his feet, ascended the stairs, _left_ her there in that impossibly white room, a white-hot fire burning between her legs and a million questions swirling in her brain.


	3. Chapter 3

He was dangerous. Of that much, she was absolutely certain.

The clonidine that dripped slowly from the IV bag at her side was gradually wearing off but Marilyn took extra care to appear sedated to prevent the doctor from upping her dosage further. She was not foolish enough to attempt escape quite yet - the time was not right, she knew, and his occasional darkly off-handed mentions of someone named Lana had taught her that staying in Oliver's good graces was imperative. If she found the right moment to escape, she had to be sure to succeed; she was certain a single misstep would cost her life, as certain as she was that Dr. Thredson was dangerous.

He had made no moves towards the sharp, glinting metal tools that hung from the wall, but he didn't need to. The predatory energy thrummed through his entire body, radiated from his eyes, rose off his skin like steam off the streets in summertime. It was true, Oliver had been kind to her, but Marilyn had barely moved since arriving in his basement a day ago. (Had it been only a day? She hoped it had - there had been one sunset and sunrise, but she supposed there was no way of knowing how long she'd been out from the original injection in her bedroom.)

She was wary of testing his patience. There was every chance that once she started to become more animated she may fall out of his good graces, upset him somehow, and it would be over. That was another thing Marilyn seemed to know with a dark certainty: when a cat grew tired of playing with a terrified captive mouse, it ended the game the only way it knew how.

His heavy footsteps had fallen above her head about an hour ago, then the house lay silent. She had been too afraid to move for quite some time but at last it seemed safe to at least test the waters. Marilyn slowly drew herself to a sitting position, feeling her stiff muscles cry out in protest. She popped the tension out of her neck, then stretched her arms carefully above her head. Just a little sore, that was all, nothing she couldn't handle.

Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked. Marilyn stopped short, her heart pounding thickly in her throat.

Moments went by. Nothing.

"The house settling," she murmured to herself, and was surprised to hear how dry her voice had become. She swallowed a few times but couldn't bring herself to swing her legs over the side of the bed. What if it wasn't the house? What if he was just trying to trick her, to see if she would escape when left alone?

The prospect was terrifying, but so was the idea of laying motionless in this strange basement bedroom for the rest of her life.

Marilyn wiggled her toes in case her legs had fallen asleep, wrestling with the choice. To get up or not to get up? What if she got to her feet and did some exploring, but he could tell when he returned home?

To her horror she realized she would have to remove the IV to get out of bed or, at the very least, wheel the IV stand around with her as she moved. The doctor was not stupid - he would notice. He would be able to tell. And he would be angry.

Above her, loud as a gunshot, the front door slammed. She fell back against the pillow at once, pulling the covers back to her chest where he'd left them. Her hesitation may have saved her life, Marilyn knew; her heart hammered hard realizing how close she had been to a fatal mistake.

There were sounds of movement from upstairs. She had begun to hope he'd lost interest in her for the moment but after about ten minutes he came bounding down the stairs, a paper sack in his arms.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, trotting over to the workbench. Oliver set the sack down and shot her a smile over his shoulder. "It's a beautiful day. I may open the window later so you can smell the fresh air."

Marilyn's eyes flicked to the corner where bright fall light filtered through a small curtain. She had noticed it before in her initial sweep of the basement, and the fact that it may be opened in the near future made her pulse quicken.

She was already contemplating various methods of escape when out of the corner of her eye Dr. Thredson started to move away from the workbench, towards her bed, slowly.

"Marilyn," he said in a strange tight voice, "how do you feel today?"

His tone was ice cold, one she had not yet heard but somehow knew was possible. Marilyn switched her gaze back to the doctor's face and feigned the initial dopey effect the clonidine had on her. She blinked heavily and shrugged her shoulders but she was terrified - his dark brows were knitted above eyes that burned with black fire, he was suddenly and terribly angry with her, she had known this would happen oh god what would she do now...

"Answer my question," Oliver demanded. She looked desperately back at the window, then at him, then to the window again. Before she could think of how to respond he had already moved away from her with long striding steps to another part of the basement.

Panic consumed her. Marilyn knew she should rip the IV from her arm and make a break for the stairs but she was simply too frightened. She watched the only opportunity for escape slip through her fingers like grains of sand as Dr. Thredson returned with a heavy iron restraint clearly meant for her.

"Please don't," she gasped, adrenaline finally coursing through her veins and spurring her to action. She shot to a sitting position and tried to draw her legs beneath her but he moved too quickly; the sturdy metal cuff snapped around her ankle like a vise. Oliver bent and fastened the other end of the restraint to one heavy bed post, setting it into place with a solid final click from a formidable-looking padlock.

Marilyn knew as soon as the chain was attached to her leg that begging would be useless, so she abruptly switched tactics. As the doctor stood and turned towards her she grasped his lapels to pull him close, kneeling before him on the bed, her face turned up towards his in suppliance.

"I'm sorry, Oliver, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I was nervous, I didn't know what to do, please forgive me Oliver, please." The words poured from her in a steady rush as Marilyn ran her hands up and down his firm chest in what she hoped was a soothing manner.

The doctor glared at her but didn't move; he seemed mildly surprised by this reaction, and this was good, it was very good.

"Your pupils," he said coldly. "When properly sedated the patient's pupils are significantly dilated and eye movement is delayed." When she didn't respond, he said with disgust, "I saw you look at the window. Planning your escape. Just like the rest of them."

"No, Oliver, no," Marilyn murmured, moving closer, hands still caressing him through his white button-up shirt. "I'm not like them, you said so, remember? You know I'm not like them, baby."

Her last word seemed to strike a nerve within him. The terrible anger cleared slightly and his eyes scanned her face as though looking for something.

She was taking control of the situation. The power was shifting, she could feel it like a silk nightie slipping over her head.

Marilyn was no stranger to calming angry, violent men; in high school, she'd dated a football player with a bad temper and a taste for his father's whiskey. He had never hit her, oh no, she would never have stood for that, but he'd come close. All it took was a little baby-talk and a gentle touch to soothe him into submission; their lovemaking had often been even better after these flare-ups. He had died in a car accident before graduation, she had mourned him, and then she had taken this skill to the bars with her as a cocktail waitress. She'd prevented more than a few drunken brawls by telling some truck driver that "he's not worth it, baby", and it had resulted in more than a few hefty tips in an evening.

"I'm sorry, Oliver, baby," she repeated, watching his eyes for the desired effect and seeing it immediately. "I was just so tired, but I'm not tired now, and I was worried you'd be upset, I didn't know how to tell you, I'm sorry." Marilyn dared to inch her body closer to his and cupped his cheek in her palm. He stared at her like a wild animal stares at a stranger offering food, one that can't decide whether to trust the hand or to bite it off.

"I won't remove it," Dr. Thredson told her warily, still searching her face for something indefinable.

"No, I understand," she murmured, "I know, I've been bad, I deserve it. You were right to do it, Oliver, you were right to punish me." Marilyn moved her hand to the back of his neck and stroked the skin there. Her body vibrated with adrenaline and excitement; regardless of this man's obvious instability he was still a man, a _handsome _man, and he smelled of some dark spiced cologne that she found intoxicating.

She was beginning to worry that fear was increasingly coupled with arousal and what it meant for her.

Oliver's breath was heavy. He seemed at war with himself, not sure of what to do next. Marilyn saw her moment and snatched it with greedy hands, bringing her mouth to his in a hard desperate kiss.

He responded favorably by parting her lips with his tongue and tangling his fingers in her hair, drawing her body tight against his own. She felt the mildly painful tug of the IV in her arm pulling free and ignored it. It was imperative that she melt into his touch, become his again – make him think that he was her whole world, and for right now, wasn't that true? Wasn't that horribly, terrifyingly true?

When Dr. Thredson broke the kiss at last they were both short of breath and trembling, but for entirely different reasons.

"I brought you something," he said huskily, and the relief that flowed through Marilyn left her somewhat lightheaded. He wasn't going to kill her. Not yet, anyway.

She let her lips split into a smile as he released her to retrieve the paper sack he'd abandoned at the workbench. When Oliver returned he held an elegant silver cigarette holder and a matching lighter.

He popped the case open and displayed the treasure within – six or seven fat joints of marijuana, remarkably like the ones the busboy had sold her only nights ago.

"I'm not really a proponent of recreational drugs," he said, smiling like a little boy with a big secret, "but after the initial test run, I couldn't deny the… desirable effect it had on you." Dr. Thredson set the cigarette case down on her nightstand but kept the silver lighter in his palm.

"Thank you," Marilyn murmured. She stared at the joints in the case. Test run?

"When you need this," he told her sternly, gesturing to the lighter in his palm, "you may ask for it. But I can't let you have it. You understand."

"Yes," she said. Her mind was still on the marijuana cigarettes he'd brought her. Had he given them to the busboy to sell to her? How did he get the illegal drug, being a respected doctor? And _how long had he been watching her?_

Oliver pocketed the lighter and sat on the edge of her bed again, looking at her face, intent.

"Say it again," he asked softly, and somehow she knew exactly what he meant.

"Baby," Marilyn cooed, then Thredson was atop her, his nimble hands stripping her of the chintzy white nightgown, leaving her stark naked and vulnerable.

He went straight for her breasts, sucking hungrily on each pert nipple in turn. The sudden heat of his mouth made her moan and this pleased him; he worked feverishly on the tender buds like a man possessed.

She tried to resist, she really did, but the attention of his gifted tongue caused a surge of wetness in her loins. The doctor spread her legs with his knee and the iron chain around her ankle clanked noisily.

This was wrong, it was very wrong, so why did she find herself arching her back towards him, opening her thighs wide to let him in?

Dr. Thredson fumbled clumsily with his belt and zipper, unleashing his throbbing cock at last. Marilyn bucked her hips to his and met his thrust; they both let out a sort of strangled cry then fell immediately in sync, their bodies moving in sweet unison.

_How did I get here? _she thought fuzzily as the doctor filled the hot space between her legs again and again. _How in god's name did I get here?_

Marilyn knew the lighter was in his pocket, she knew she could reach in while he thrusted and simply pluck the thing from the pants that now sagged halfway off of him, and yet… she didn't.

She knew she could set him ablaze on top of her if she wanted to. She could, possibly, escape.

And she didn't.

Instead, she moved her lips next to his ear, huskily whispered his name into it, and began to gently lick and bite the soft skin of his neck. She felt him come undone in her arms, spasming, groaning, giving in utterly to his release at her hands.

At the same time she came, clawing at his white dress shirt, wrapping her legs tightly around him as she pulsed around his thick cock.

When it was all over they simply lay there and struggled for breath together.

Eventually Thredson drew away from her and she noted, sadly, the emptiness he left her with. Marilyn hadn't realized until now how lonely the bed was when she was the only one in it.

"I should make breakfast," he said, sounding like someone who'd utterly lost what he had set out to do only moments ago. Oliver's eyes looked her over. "Are you… hungry?"

They locked eyes for what seemed like forever.

"I am," she responded at last. He smiled (god, was he handsome when he smiled) and nodded, a reassuring little action.

"Good," the doctor murmured, "good. I'll only be a few minutes." His eyes flicked to the heavy iron chain at her ankle; he turned and hurried away, tucking the ends of his dress shirt back into his pants as he ascended the stairs.

_There will be other opportunities, _Marilyn told herself, but the voice in her head seemed weak and unsure of itself. _There will be other chances. You haven't lost yet._

But she was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, she had.


	4. Chapter 4

He sat with her on the bed, cross-legged, smiling, as they had breakfast together. Every so often he set down his fork to steeple his chin in his hands and stare at Marilyn, who ate ravenously for the first time since her captivity began.

Oliver had made scrambled eggs and toast. The meal was undeniably delicious.

She took advantage of the silence to consider her next plan of action. It was important that she not lose sight of her eventual escape – true, they seemed to have some sort of macabre chemistry, but that didn't change the fact that she was being held prisoner in his basement. Marilyn shifted to reach the orange juice on the nightstand and her ankle restraint clanked loudly as if in agreement.

After a second helping that Oliver eagerly fetched for her she pushed her empty plate away and smiled.

"Thank you," she said softly. "That was so wonderful. You're too good to me, Oliver." Marilyn knew she must be obedient, keep him pleased with her; she must make a clear divide between _her _and _them_, the other women who no doubt had been in this dark basement and never left alive.

"Secret recipe," he said mischievously, but didn't elaborate as he began to gather their used silverware. The doctor set the forks and napkins in a pile on the workbench and turned back to her bed, moving slower now, watching her face. "You should have some of your present."

She realized he meant the marijuana cigarettes in the sleek silver holder at her bedside. An alarm sounded somewhere in her mind – _no, no, this means trouble – _but she tried to hide any trace of it in her expression.

"Yes, my present," Marilyn began nervously. "What a… nice thing for you to do for me. It makes me so sleepy, though, and it's so early_—"_

He held their breakfast dishes in his hands and stared at her.

"That's not a problem," Thredson said, voice flat. "Have one."

The bud in those joints was strong, she knew, far stronger than she was used to smoking, and it would render her helpless. There was no way she'd be able to smoke and keep her wits about her. It may delay her escape plan by days.

"I'd rather talk with you for a while," she improvised quickly. "I barely know anything about you, Oliver_—_"

"We can talk later." The impish little-boy spirit he'd exuded during breakfast had dissolved away, leaving behind a formidable darkness in its place. Marilyn looked into his face and tried to steel her resolve as he stared at her.

"I just don't think_—_"

The doctor suddenly flung both plates at the wall behind her head; they shattered with incredible force, splintering porcelain across the basement floor.

_"Do you think I'm fucking around?" _he screamed, all at once a powerful storm of pure anger. _"I told you to have one, it's your goddamn present—"_

"Okay!" Marilyn shrieked, scrambling for the joints on her nightstand. "I'm sorry, Oliver, baby, please, I'll have one! I'll have one!" Her shaking hands drew a stick from the silver case and placed it between her lips. "See? See? Just light it for me, baby, please."

His eruption was more than terrifying. It displayed with perfect clarity just what his lean, lithe body was capable of. Breakfast was nice, he made love like an art, but _this _was his true nature... _this _was why she needed so desperately to escape, and soon.

Oliver stood at the foot of her bed, breathing heavily as he stared her down like a predator about to pounce.

Then, just as suddenly, he was calm again. The doctor smiled and moved towards her, pulling the lighter from his pocket.

"Good," he said as though nothing had happened. "Here, inhale." He clicked the lighter and a flame sprang to life; Oliver held it to the end of the joint in her mouth and she obeyed, but the breath she took was short and shallow.

She exhaled a small puff of smoke and looked at him for approval. He frowned.

"That's not how you do it," Thredson said flatly. "I've seen you. You take in as much as you can and hold it in. Do it right."

He extended the lighter towards her again. There was no fooling him twice, she knew, and though her heart beat like a manic butterfly in her chest, she let him light the marijuana cigarette again, this time taking a deep shaky breath inward.

Marilyn held the sweet woodsy smoke in her lungs as long as she could before exhaling with a few hearty coughs. The weed went straight to her brain, causing a thick pleasant fog, yet the doctor clicked the lighter again and held it towards her.

"I can't," she began, already lightheaded, but the darkness behind his eyes stopped her dead in her tracks. Marilyn placed the joint between her lips again and took another deep breath as he held the flame steadily before her face. She couldn't hold in the smoke as long this time and dissolved into a flurry of coughs, curling onto her side. Oliver began rubbing soothing little circles over her back with his palm.

"Good girl," he whispered gently, and waited until the fit subsided. When Marilyn's breathing returned to normal he tilted her face towards him. He looked curious, excited. "How do you feel?"

She had utterly lost control of the situation. Her head was spinning as the drug began to overtake her, seeping through her body like a warm toxin. She made a breathless little noise and he took this as the right answer.

"Excellent," Oliver murmured to himself. Marilyn felt his weight lift from the bed but she could do nothing; she was overcome by the drug's effect, and it's why she barely struggled when he began to secure her left wrist into a leather cuff.

"Wait," she breathed, knowing somewhere in her mind that this was what she'd been afraid of. "Wait, Oliver, wait…"

"Shhhh," he hushed tenderly. "You're all right, everything's okay. I just want to try something." She turned her head helplessly towards him to see a smile playing across his lips.

"No, baby, please," Marilyn whispered. She was sure he was going to kill her now, he was through with her, how could she have been so stupid? He crossed to the other side of the bed and strapped her right wrist carefully. Her upper body was immobile; all she could do was lift her head and stare at him fearfully as he returned to the footboard.

"Your baby would never hurt you," Oliver said huskily, slipping onto the bed on all fours. He gripped her knees in his strong hands and spread them apart, slowly, savoring the sight before him. "I just… want to try something."

She scarcely had time to think before the doctor dipped his face to the folds between her legs and began to touch them with his tongue – slowly at first, tentatively, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do.

Marilyn cried out at the wet heat of his mouth and bucked impulsively into him; Dr. Thredson pulled back, smiling, and held her knees in place.

"You can scream if you like," he told her in a voice thick with lust. "The walls are soundproof." Then he returned to the slick folds of her loins, working with more certainty now, his tongue strong and insistent.

She moaned loudly, her head rolling back on her shoulders. The weed made her weak and pliable and, in truth, unbelievably aroused. His mouth on her was like hot luscious sin.

"Oliver," Marilyn whimpered as he made his way towards the aching bud at the apex of her thighs. She pulled instinctively against the wrist restraints but got nowhere; for some reason, the fact that she couldn't move was thrilling and pushed her pleasure to new heights.

At the sound of his name the doctor made a low sound in his throat, his hands squeezing her knees as he worked his mouth tirelessly between her legs.

She could barely think, her head was spinning, a deep powerful heat was surging through her very core, she couldn't move, all Marilyn could feel was his strong hands holding her still and his deft tongue in her most sensitive of places, oh god, what was happening to her?

His lips closed around her swollen clitoris and the doctor began to suck gently; it sent her over the edge at once. She did scream - a strangled cry of pleasure ripped from her throat as she came violently, her privates pulsing in perhaps the strongest orgasm she'd ever had.

Her release didn't deter him; Oliver continued licking like a man possessed until she came again, then begged him to stop, breathlessly insisting she couldn't take any more.

At last he lifted his head from her crotch, grinning devilishly, lips slick with her juices.

"But we're just getting started," Thredson said, and began to remove his pants.

Nearly an hour later they lay together in the bed, naked and utterly spent. Marilyn had pulled one of her wrists free of the restraint during their lovemaking but the doctor hardly seemed to notice. He was regaining his stolen breath and tracing small circles with his fingertips over her abdomen.

"I wish every day could be like this," Oliver mused, "but I have work to do at the asylum. After tomorrow you'll be alone during the day." His dark eyes flicked to hers and she sought the correct answer as fast as she could. The weed still hung heavy in her brain like smog but she could think more clearly now.

"I'll miss you," she murmured, beginning to run her fingers through his thick hair. He leaned into her touch like it was something he craved.

"I know you will." Dr. Thredson laid his palm flat on her stomach and stared at it for a long moment. The silence made Marilyn nervous so she shifted a little, then smiled when his gaze met hers again.

"I could keep house for you," she suggested hesitantly. "While you're at work - I could clean, you know, have dinner waiting-" He shook his head in a gesture that was becoming more and more familiar to her each day.

"No." She couldn't help it; she felt her eyes prickle with hot tears at the idea he was going to leave her here, alone, for days at a time. Oliver mistook her despair for disappointment at the loss of her womanly duties and cupped her cheek in his free hand. "Maybe someday, Marilyn. Right now, it's just too risky."

"Can you at least," she said shakily, her chest hitching with unshed tears, "take this off my wrist?" She shook her left arm against the leather cuff. He smiled the way one smiles at a spoiled child asking for another dessert but lifted himself up onto his elbows to better reach the strap.

"Oh, poor thing," he murmured, and for a moment Marilyn wondered if he was making fun of her. Then he released her and held her wrist delicately in his hands, moving his thumb along the red marks the restraint had left behind.

"Thank you," she whispered. Another silence passed between them before she took a deep breath and placed both her hands on Oliver's firm bare chest. An idea had begun to bloom in her brain.

The doctor's eyes drifted closed at her touch; she inched her fingers slowly through the dark wiry hair across his torso and he all but purred, sidling his body closer to hers.

"Baby?" Marilyn ventured, and when he looked at her with gentle eyes she realized this was the only way she'd ever get anywhere with him, but it was a good way, it was a way that worked. "How can I... prove myself to you?"

He stiffened a little, dark brows meeting in a concerned frown, but she kept her hands moving in careful little motions across his skin.

"I want to show you," she said earnestly, dipping her head towards his so their lips nearly touched. "that I'm different from _them_, that you can trust me." The weed still coursing through her system made the words flow freely, the seduction of this darkly handsome man something almost natural. Marilyn caught his lower lip in her teeth and sucked it gently.

He wasn't expecting this; Oliver let loose a surprised little moan and grabbed her waist, pulling her hips close to his. She noted with some amazement that he was already becoming aroused again.

"I know you're different," he mumbled breathlessly when she released his lip.

"I won't run," she assured him, slipping her hand below his waist to caress his growing erection.

"You might," said Thredson but his eyes drifted back into his head as she touched him where she knew men could be most easily controlled. Marilyn put her lips next to his ear so her breath would be hot and send shivers down his spine.

"I won't," she insisted, and he opened his eyes to inspect her face for lies.

They remained this way for a long time before Oliver wet his lips and said, "What did you have in mind?"


	5. Chapter 5

She asked if she could take a shower. The first time, he said no. She asked again, getting on her knees. A second time, he said no. After the third time she took him into her mouth and he was saying yes, yes, yes.

Marilyn stopped almost as soon as she'd started; she was fairly certain he'd never had a woman's lips on that part of him before and it was a powerful weapon, one she needed to keep in the holster for now. The doctor looked disappointed yet wildly intrigued, as if she'd just shown him a brand new part of the world he desperately needed to explore.

And it worked. He found the tiny metal key for the padlock and clicked it open. The sound was music to her ears but she steeled herself, knowing any signs of fight or flight would be instantly noticed by Oliver's keen eye; she simply smiled at him as he unwound the chain from the bedpost and held it in his long-fingered hands.

"Just until you're in the bathroom," he assured her, and gave the restraint a little tug to imply she was allowed to leave the bed.

She wet her lips nervously with her tongue. Now that her plan was in motion she was terrified. It was like waiting excitedly in line for a ride at the amusement park only to realize once you were in the car that the roller coaster was rickety and clearly unsafe.

Marilyn placed both feet on the floor, feeling the cool smoothness of the white tiles beneath her. She was still quite high but the world around her felt impossibly in-focus. She took one tentative step, aware that her legs might be weak after a day or so of confinement, and was pleased to find her footing.

Oliver extended his free hand to her and helped her up. She noted that his face was calm but the knuckles gripping the heavy iron chain were white.

They ascended the stairs together, slowly.

He guided her with gentle pulls on the ankle restraint, careful not to move too quickly or jerk her feet out from under her. Marilyn followed him like a faithful dog on a leash, one hand on his forearm as a small comfort.

When they passed through the hallway and by the front door she made a concerted effort not to look.

At the bathroom he urged her in first, then closed the door behind them, turning the lock on the shiny doorknob into place. Marilyn's heart pounded in a steady solid rhythm, she could hear it in her ears like war drums but she was too alert to pay it much attention. This was it, her moment, her golden opportunity to flee this man's skilled hands and dark intentions.

Oliver sat on the closed lid of the toilet, blocking her exit. He jerked his head towards the shower once.

"There," he said, and dropped the chain to the ceramic-tiled floor with a clang. He was clearly high strung, uncomfortable with the entire situation. For a moment Marilyn almost felt sorry for him; he was placing his fragile trust in her hands and she was about to shatter it into fine porcelain dust.

She placed her palm against his cheek and found it flushed, but he frowned and withdrew.

"Just do it," the doctor muttered, his voice that of a sulky little boy.

She swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She assessed the situation as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself.

The heavy iron cuff was still around her ankle, but he was no longer holding the chain.

The door was locked, but only by a simple mechanism she could turn with her own fingers.

All that stood in her way was him.

Marilyn started the water in the shower, turning over these facts in her mind like small smooth stones. When she had the temperature right, she had the answer.

"Join me," she murmured, looking over her shoulder flirtatiously. Oliver started a little.

"What?"

_"Join me,"_ Marilyn repeated, and smiled, slipping the ugly cotton nightgown over her head. She dropped it on the bathroom floor the way a burlesque dancer drops her first glove, then stepped into the warm steam of the shower.

It was a gamble. Thredson knew his way around the female body but for all his skill he still seemed to her like a teenage boy, fumbling with feelings and experiences for the very first time. Just as she'd known he'd never seen a woman's lips wrapped around his member she assumed he'd never showered with one either, and her assumption seemed to be right. But would it work? Would he take the bait?

She waited, letting the hot water rush over her body, tilting her face back to feel the steady stream on her face. It was quiet except for the drops hitting the shower floor and the iron restraint clanking wetly against her ankle. After a few minutes the curtain drew back and Oliver slipped inside, nude and hesitant.

He looked unsure of himself; this was a new side she had yet to see from him. He'd removed his glasses for the first time and without them seemed smaller somehow. His shoulders were hunched and he kept covering his crotch with his large hands as if embarrassed. The shower was barely big enough for the both of them, so she scooted forward to allow him more room.

Marilyn felt a twinge of sympathy for this powerful man so out of his element, so suddenly shy and yet opening himself up to her, putting himself in this strange situation for her benefit. Again, she couldn't help but think this seemed like a cruel prank.

She turned to face him and put her hands on his shoulders as if they were dancing at prom. The water rushed around them as he lifted his eyes to hers, hopeful and a little worried.

"This is... nice," Oliver said, a smile surfacing on his face. She didn't know what to say so she pulled him closer, letting him share more of the hot water, planning her next move.

Eventually he found himself more comfortable in the shower with her; the doctor began running his hands along her body, palms slippery against her soaked skin. Marilyn waited until he was deeply engaged in this activity and growing aroused yet again to strike.

"Oliver," she purred, tipping her head towards his. He met her gaze instantly. "Do you have shampoo? I'd like to wash my hair."

Thredson stared at her for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, then turned to fetch a bottle of Top Brass from the shower shelf. When he faced her again she had her palm outstretched.

"Just a little," Marilyn said, her brain buzzing in her head, knowing this was it, this was her moment.

He uncapped the bottle, squirted a thick dollop into her hand, and then it all seemed to happen at once.

She shoved the shampoo in his face as hard as she could, mashing the undoubtedly foul-tasting mixture into his mouth and eyes. There was a loud click as his teeth cracked together and he began to stumble backwards; his long limbs flailed helplessly as he slipped once, and again, then finally fell off his feet completely, head striking the side of the tub with a sound that reminded her of a baseball hitting a catcher's mitt.

Marilyn leapt from the tub, nearly tangling herself in the half-torn shower curtain that he'd managed to grab on his way down. The iron restraint around her ankle clattered endlessly as she stumbled for the door.

He was howling, a terrible keening noise, it echoed through her ears and tore holes in her drug-addled brain but she clambered for the doorknob desperately. Her shampoo-slick hands could barely grasp the lock - she tried once, twice, three times, but she couldn't get the fucking thing to go, oh god, she could hear him behind her, he was getting to his feet, oh Jesus Christ please...

At last she seized the lock with two fingers and turned hard, then the door was open and she was flying, she was tearing down the hallway, slipping on her own wet feet, leaving behind a long trail of shampoo suds and water.

Marilyn fumbled with the front door for what seemed like forever before finally bursting outside and running as fast as her legs could take her. She was a wet naked mess but it didn't matter, she was free, she was in the cool evening air and moving like she'd never moved before, sobbing like a crazy person as she bolted down his driveway and towards the road.

She swore she could hear him still, the anguished cries of a defied predator, but there were headlights coming; she threw herself at the oncoming car, already begging for help, please, there's a man back in that house, he's going to kill me, he's going to-

"Marilyn?"

Her eyes popped open to see Oliver, bottle of Top Brass in hand, staring at her with deep concern.

Water from the showerhead ran down her hair and into her face; she scrubbed at her eyes, still consumed with the terrifying details of her escape fantasy.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked gently. Marilyn nodded, numb, and he extended the shampoo towards her. "You wanted this?"

She swallowed hard; it seemed like breakfast was trying to come back up her throat. She was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by a strange sense of grief.

"No," Marilyn said, and it was like someone else was speaking, but that was her voice, wasn't it? It sounded faraway and hollow but it was her voice, and it was her hand pushing the bottle towards him again, and it was her voice now saying, oddly, "I've changed my mind."

"Oh," he replied, confused. Oliver replaced the bottle where it belonged and she stared dumbly at him, still not sure what had just happened within her; what was different, what was new? What had just slipped through her fingers so effortlessly?

The doctor took her face in his hands, tilting her head back so the water ran down her spine and away from her eyes. They locked gazes and his was so intense, so dark she nearly looked away. But she didn't.

"I've looked for you," he breathed, studying her as if memorizing each feature, "_everywhere."_

And for no reason at all, Marilyn said, "I know."

The doctor pulled her mouth to his in a hungry kiss; as he tangled her wet blonde hair in his fingers, as she pressed her breasts against his firm chest, as they molded their bodies together once again, she thought to herself, _I can try again, this isn't the end, there will be more chances, I can try again-I haven't lost yet._


	6. Chapter 6

She'd begun to lose track of the days.

Marilyn had started out counting each sunrise and sunset faithfully, keeping a mental tally of the time passing in Thredson's cool quiet basement, but one morning she woke up and realized that number was suddenly beyond her grasp. She tried again and again to pin it down - was it 8 days, or 9? Thursday or Friday?

After that she stopped watching for the sun's light in the far corner window. What was the point? Somewhere deep inside a tiny voice cried out that it was important, that she shouldn't lose sight, but the voice was too weak and far away to change her mind.

Since the incident in the shower a sort of odd numbness had settled over Marilyn. She had held a priceless opportunity in her hands and let it slip away like some exotic butterfly she somehow knew she'd never see again.

It hadn't been for nothing; Oliver was nearly giddy with happiness when she returned to the basement at the end of her long iron leash with no struggle at all. He'd kissed her hard on the mouth, murmuring that he knew she was different, she would be happy here, he could trust her. He'd let her keep the lighter. He'd brought his record player downstairs so she would have something to listen to during the day when he was away.

He'd kept her chained to the bed. Marilyn supposed his trust only went so far.

For the first few days he left her for his work at the asylum, she tried to keep her mind and body sharp. She did a series of exercises to strengthen her less frequently-used legs and kept careful track of the sun. Then one day she'd decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to build her tolerance for the strong, stinky weed he brought her. After all, he would probably ask her to smoke it again, and it was unwise to continue to let herself be taken off-guard by its potency.

There was a kernel of truth to this logic but she also needed desperately to relax, to slow her racing brain from its constant rush of thoughts and plans and worries. So Marilyn smoked. She listened to records. She waited for Oliver to come home.

The first time he came down the stairs to find her stoned and insatiable they had made love for hours.

When the fog cleared she made a silent promise to never fall into that trap again. Yet somehow each morning she found herself lighting another joint to make the dark basement less frightening, to make the long hours pass faster, to make the outdated records sound better.

And so she'd begun to lose track of the days.

Now Marilyn listened to Artie Shaw and his orchestra wail away on their instruments, a slow rolling song called "Nightmare". The sleazy horns reminded her of a noir film she'd seen once and for some reason made a thin humorless smile rise to her lips.

She took another long drag off her joint and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise before her and fade away. It didn't have the same paralyzing effect it used to, which was good, but it still softened the sharp corners of her strange shattered life, which was also good. Marilyn closed her eyes and enjoyed the swimming sensation in her skull just as the front door slammed upstairs.

She tapped the ash from her joint and set it in a cut-glass ashtray on the nightstand. He'd be with her soon; Oliver never wasted much time when he arrived home from the asylum.

A few minutes passed and Artie Shaw moved on from a nightmare to something a little jazzier. Marilyn sat cross-legged on the bed, waiting.

Just when she'd started to suspect something was wrong the door at the top of the stairs burst open and the doctor came barreling down, a cigarette clamped firmly between his lips.

"That _bitch," _he spat, and Marilyn was suddenly quite glad she'd spent her whole afternoon smoking. He was in a rage; Oliver paced the length of the basement restlessly, pulling long drags on his cigarette and exhaling in large angry puffs.

"What's wrong, baby?" she purred, but her tone disguised a chill wariness. He'd already removed his white work shirt and tie, which was unusual; he usually enjoyed watching her take them off him, undoing each button one at a time with a slow precision. He stalked back and forth in only his black dress slacks and white sleeveless undershirt, a sight that both worried and excited her. His lean muscles rippled as he moved and she found herself licking her lips.

_"Lana," _he said, drawing the name out as if Marilyn were stupid and the answer was obvious. "She's going to fuck me over, she has the tape-"

He kept marching back and forth, his free hand flexing and unflexing as he took yet another drag on his already half-spent cigarette. He reminded her of a caged jungle cat, beautiful and dangerous.

Marilyn extended her arms and motioned towards her chest. It was imperative she get him to calm down; in this state he was likely to do something drastic.

"Come here," she said gently, taking advantage of the maternal side she had once prided herself on supposedly not possessing. "I'll make it better."

The doctor shot her a brief look and kept pacing.

"You're high," he said with a hint of disgust.

Marilyn was undeterred. She motioned again, opening her legs to allow him room in her lap. This act was becoming almost natural.

"Let me make it better," she said, and he stopped his deranged path around the basement to look at her once more. There was a moment where she thought he might turn on her, hands outstretched to take her by the neck and put an end to it all, but at last he relented. Oliver tossed his cigarette to the floor, climbed into the bed, and leaned against her like an overgrown child.

All the anger seemed to melt away from his body as she tucked her legs around him in a strange sort of hug, pulling his head to her breasts to stroke his hair carefully.

"Tell me all about it," Marilyn murmured. She was no longer afraid; when he was like this he was putty in her hands, and the weed had lulled her into a peculiar zen-like peace.

"She's going to ruin everything." The doctor had buried his face into the white cotton of her nightgown, nuzzling his nose along the curve of her breasts. "Before you were here, Lana tricked me, that _bitch, _she recorded me, she had no _right-" _Marilyn hushed him tenderly and rubbed her palm along the nape of his neck.

"We'll take care of her," she found herself saying, and the words were a surprise even as they left her lips.

"She'll go to the police," Oliver said, but the voice near her breasts was a little stronger now. "She has evidence. She can get me put away, or worse."

_"We'll take care of her," _Marilyn repeated, and now she had something, she had a little nugget of an idea, it was buried deep in the dark recesses of her stoned-sluggish brain but it was something.

Thredson sat up, frowning, and scanned her face as though he sensed this.

"How?"

"She's in an asylum," she said, and the something she had slipped through her fingers like a penny down a storm drain. Marilyn felt it go that easily but she couldn't abandon it, it could be another hope, so she just kept going. "How's she going to get it to the police?" Oliver kept his eyes on hers but had no answer for her. "Do you think she'll be released?"

"No," he admitted, his own brain turning over his own something. "I'm her doctor, I'll never allow it. And the Monsignor seems to be... preoccupied."

"There," she soothed, and suddenly felt an irrational hot flare of anger towards the faceless Lana. Whatever she had done to him had been far worse than any of _them_ as far as Marilyn could tell, and it had left the window open for Oliver to find a new target. Lana had lived, Lana had _escaped_, but she was still causing ripples through his life and by extension Marilyn's. If she had just accepted her fate perhaps Marilyn would still be home, sleeping in her own warm bed and living in complete ignorance of the predator next door.

"How do you expect her to get to the police when she's an inmate in an asylum?" she went on, unsure of what to do with this fresh misplaced hostility.

"She's smart," Oliver said, but he was taken with the new light in her eyes, the sudden unexpected change in her normally calm energy. It was like he had felt her axis shift, and it terrified her.

"_You're_ smart," Marilyn insisted, and all at once she was ravenous for him. The fear and anger and high met in a crashing symphony and she just gave into it because it was simply too much to fight all the time.

She scooted behind him and wrapped her legs around his waist, snaking her arms over his chest to pull him close. He put his hands on her bare knees and squeezed as she began kissing the sensitive area where his neck met his shoulder.

"What are we going to do?" Oliver asked, tracing his fingers along her skin.

"We'll worry about that later. Lana's not going anywhere." She had no idea what it was supposed to mean but the words sounded good; Marilyn gave his skin a little bite and his whole body jerked. She could feel the rise of his erection against her foot resting in his lap.

Perhaps if she played along, made Lana the enemy, she could get him to move her upstairs. Perhaps he'd even take her to the asylum to help, he'd unlock the cuff around her ankle, he'd take her into the sunlight and she'd have another chance at sweet freedom.

The thought fueled the fire between her legs and she reached between his, grasping what had grown there.

Oliver sucked his breath through his teeth, bucking into her touch. She had a sudden urge to dominate him completely, to exercise the rare power she held over him. To make him aware of it.

Her thoughts were racing. The days of captivity were taking a toll on her and Marilyn needed to regain control, clear the muddiness from her mind.

She slipped off the bed, the ankle chain rattling loudly as she dropped to her knees before him. He stared at her with wide dark eyes.

They faced off for a moment before Marilyn smiled and began to unzip his pants torturously slow. He licked his lips; she tugged his slacks off and tossed them aside, then set to releasing his erection from the confines of his plain trim boxer shorts.

She'd been holding this weapon in her back pocket until now, and it thrilled her to think the effect it would have on him. Oliver stared at her wordlessly, holding his breath.

She wasted no time and simply took his throbbing cock into the wet heat of her mouth. He let loose a surprised little noise, hips bucking, and fell back onto his elbows. A sense of satisfaction rolled through her as she began to do what boys had told her she did well since junior year of high school.

Marilyn ran her tongue up and down the length of him, pausing briefly to dart at the underside of his swollen head. He growled softly in the back of his throat. She was careful to not set him off too early - she had her own end in mind - but knew the right moves to make him rock hard and helpless.

She ran her fingers through the dark hair on his thighs and Oliver suddenly seized the skin on the back of her neck; a pleasurable shiver ran down her spine. Marilyn met his gaze and kept sucking, slowly, tracing delicate patterns with her tongue along his pulsing member.

He stared down at her hungrily, hips twitching and jerking as she worked long low moans from his throat. His grip on the back of her neck was firm but not painful; she realized he may be trying to reestablish his dominance, remind her who was really in control here, and she decided to overrule him. She held one singular power in this dark dank basement and like hell he was going to take it from her.

The doctor made a sound of disappointment as she pulled away only to be surprised as Marilyn shoved him backwards on the bed and straddled his lap.

She felt a surge of pride looking down at the lithe, muscular man beneath her. His chest heaved, he was wildly aroused but he made no move to touch her - for the moment, she was completely in control.

Without breaking eye contact Marilyn slowly lowered herself onto him; his mouth fell open as she enveloped him in the hot slick space between her legs and began to rock her hips in an agonizing rhythm.

Oliver slid his hands over her waist, bunching up the hem of her nightgown so he could watch with awe as his throbbing erection glided in and out of her. She picked up speed and he grunted, taken off guard, but she was in charge now, she was going to make him come and she was going to make him remember it.

Marilyn clasped her thighs firmly around him and rolled her hips in a wide circular motion; a loud involuntary moan left his lips. He was unraveling, and fast.

Keeping him inside her, she leaned forward and pressed her breasts against his chest, her simple white nightgown meeting his sleeveless undershirt. As she rode him Marilyn took the doctor by the chin and carefully began tracing his perfect lips with the tip of her tongue.

She saw him come before she felt it. Thredson's eyes rolled back in his head and he gave a shuddery little gasp as she drew out his orgasm with long slow rolls of her slim hips.

Satisfied with this reaction Marilyn focused on her own impending release; she buried her face in the exotic-smelling curve of his neck and rode out an explosive climax that left them both breathless and sweating.

When he began to grow soft inside her she slipped carefully off of him and laid there, enjoying the afterglow. Oliver adjusted himself back inside his boxers, then paused for a moment. After a brief silence he pulled her to his chest, her back pressed against his torso. She allowed herself to be held this way and tried to ignore the sinking feeling that she liked how his arms felt around her.

"Marilyn?" he whispered at last, breath warm in her ear. "Would you like to sleep upstairs tonight?"


	7. Chapter 7

Thunder rolled low and late the first night she shared his bed, but the storm didn't wake her and she slept soundly. It was, in fact, the best night of sleep she'd gotten in months.

Oliver wrapped his lithe body around hers, cradling her as though she were something precious, and began to whisper in her ear. He told her what his mother had done, and then what _he _had done, and eventually what Lana had done. It may have been hard to listen at first but as he quickly became aroused the stiff member between his legs kept her alert with its persistent pressure.

Marilyn was now certain that he was Bloody Face but subtle clues in his articulately-told tale said the evidence was probably long gone, the horrible mask of human flesh burned in an act of caution after Lana's escape. She had suspected this, and she had expected an overwhelming surge of terror when the suspicion was all but confirmed, yet she felt nothing more than a queer numbness. _Oh,_ was all her mind seemed to say. _I see._

Then he began to speak of Marilyn herself. The doctor told her how she was special, how she was perfect, how she'd been hiding right under his nose all along. He ran his hands over her breasts, his erection growing harder still as her nipples responded to the feathery touches of his fingers.

He told her she was beautiful, like his mother.

When they finished making love Oliver fell into a deep, soundless slumber; she was certain she'd lay awake all night, distracted terribly by the lack of a heavy iron chain on her ankle, but the warmth of a body near hers was something she'd nearly forgotten. Marilyn allowed herself to fit into the gentle curve of his side and before she knew it sleep was upon her like a thick blanket.

She drifted off telling her frantic escape instincts that she was fine, that this wasn't the time, that she hadn't lost yet.

The next morning's dawn was grey when Marilyn opened her eyes to find the doctor staring fixedly down at her, his expression dark and unreadable.

"Hello," she said quietly.

"You stayed," he said, voice flat. "There was nothing keeping you here but you stayed."

Marilyn pressed her palm to the firm muscles of his torso, intent on changing that strange faraway look on his face. She tangled her fingers through his chest hair in a way she knew he liked.

"I did," she murmured. The crease between his brows deepened.

"I'm a very dangerous man," Thredson told her simply.

"I know," she found herself saying.

He stared at her in silence for a long moment.

At last the doctor gently placed the pads of his long, thick fingers to the base of her neck. He began stroking, slowly, almost absentmindedly, as his grip started to close around her throat.

"Oliver," she whispered, a kind of dimwitted terror seeping through her, but his grasp never tightened; he simply held her there.

"Tell me what we're going to do to her," he said in a strange husky voice, and he slipped his free hand beneath the sheets. His fingers found the warm space between her legs almost instantly.

Marilyn's breath escaped her in a shuddery rush as he teased the folds of her sex with those skilled fingers, the same fingers that had no doubt tortured and killed those women, those poor women, but oh god how good his fingers felt.

"Oliver," she said again, and whined quietly when he circled the juices of her arousal around the sensitive bundle of nerves he seemed to know so well.

"Tell me," Oliver growled, "tell me what we're going to do to Lana. You and I." The touch of his fingertips on her neck coupled with the teasing between her thighs left her breathless and dizzy; she had to ground herself to recall the promise she'd made the night before. _We'll take care of her._ She'd said it, he hadn't asked her to, but she'd said it. Why?

Marilyn tried to remember what had made the other woman her enemy, even if only briefly, and why she'd made such a promise. Her thoughts broke apart and scattered when the doctor inserted two thick fingers slowly inside her aching core.

"We'll take care of her," she whimpered, and the smile that split his lips was that of a wolf with a lamb in its jaws. Oliver turned her face to the side, away from his, then lowered his mouth to her exposed throat.

"How?" He ran the tip of his tongue up the curve of her neck and Marilyn felt her back arch of its own accord. His fingers began pumping in a slow torturous rhythm, a sinful heartbeat between her legs. She fought to catch her breath but oh god what he was doing to her.

"We'll... stop her," she said, interrupting herself with a moan when he began kissing the space just below her jawline. The answer was clearly not enough for him and Thredson slowed his ministrations further.

"How?" Oliver repeated, and Marilyn let loose a frustrated little cry; his fingers were moving so slowly, it was sweet torture but she needed more. She bucked her hips against him but the doctor kept his steady pace.

Her face was burning. She knew she was weak in his hands, but she'd had no idea just how weak. This man was a probable murderer, at the very least a kidnapper, she'd had so many chances to escape him and yet here she was, naked in his bed with his fingers deep inside her most secret of places.

Marilyn tried to picture herself back at home and was dully surprised to find she couldn't.

As if sensing her distraction, the doctor gave her neck a less-than-gentle bite. She jerked against the hand still at her throat and tried to bring her runaway train of thought back on its tracks.

"Baby," she murmured, trying to buy herself some time. Oliver lifted his gaze to hers. His dark eyes were bright and shone with something that she couldn't quite name. Was it insanity?

Marilyn worried it might be.

"We need to get rid of her," he said in an odd low voice. His naked erection bumped her thigh as he continued to pump his thick deft fingers between her legs. Oliver bit his lip and tipped his head towards hers, struggling to remain composed, but he'd been aroused into some sort of predatory frenzy like a shark that smells blood. "You said so yourself."

Had she? Had she suggested they kill Lana? She couldn't remember, the days had blurred and the weed had made her sluggish, she was losing the sharp edge of her will and it was terrifying. She thought that at some point she'd been in control, firmly in control, and suddenly she was not.

"I did?" she whispered, but the doctor seemed to ignore the questioning tilt of her sentence; he let out a moan that sounded both relieved and full of lust. The grip around her neck grew alarmingly tight.

Marilyn felt a surge of her old self flow through her body like a wave of icewater in her veins. As worrisome spots began to appear in her vision she beat her fists against his chest, the practical sense of fight or flight finally kicking in.

Her blows fell against him like nothing, and he actually smiled down at her; it was as if her sudden rebellion was something that pleased him, an indication that she wasn't all his quite yet, but the look in his eyes told her she would be soon.

Thredson released her throat at last, then followed suit by pinning both her wrists to the bed. His right hand was slick with her arousal.

"We'll do it together," he huffed, spreading her legs with a quick movement of his knee. "It's only hard at first, I promise." Marilyn struggled weakly against his strong grip, alarmed by his words, but when the doctor entered her like a knife through warm butter she realized it was futile. She may hold some form of power over him but he held the reigns, it was because of him and the way his slender body moved against hers that she hadn't left last night, and she knew it, _she knew it._

Oliver thrust his hips against hers, eyes closed in pleasure as he drove into her hot wet center again and again. She was shamefully aroused – if only her mother could see her now! – and Marilyn turned her face to the pillow, trying to convince herself that this was _not _defeat, it was _not _the end, but oh god what if it was?

"Say you'll do it," he gasped desperately, and when she didn't look at him the doctor pressed his forehead to her cheek, still bucking away at the space between her legs. "Say you'll kill her with me. Please."

She felt something building deep within her, but whether it was an emotion or an orgasm was unclear; Marilyn flexed her fingers uselessly and looked up at him, her captor, her lover, the man who lived next door.

She tried to imagine going back into the world without him.

"I'll do it," she whispered, and the moan that escaped his mouth was such a thankful broken sound that she moaned with him, feeling his body fall into a rhythm that would surely be her undoing.

"You'll do it?" he managed, his grip still tight around her wrists, his hips still thrusting away, his voice thick with lust or tears or both.

Marilyn pulled hard against him and he released her immediately. She grabbed around his neck like someone drowning, pulling him closer so she could smell him, and it was his smell that sent her over the edge.

Her sex convulsed and twitched around his pulsing member; this was all he needed, her groans in his ear and her hips meeting his effortlessly, and soon Oliver came too, pumping into her drenched core until they were both utterly spent.

He collapsed on top of her but remained inside, relishing the feel of her womanhood, and at last she met his gaze with hers.

She searched his face and a thought finally surfaced in her brain: _what do you have to lose?_

This was survival – if she refused, he would kill her.

And she didn't have to go through with it. She could escape before then.

Part of her doubted that very much but it was something left to hold on to when everything else had been ripped away.

And so Marilyn nodded.

"I'll help you kill her," she said, breathless, and then she could say no more because his mouth was on hers once again.


	8. Chapter 8

This time, Marilyn made breakfast.

She wasn't a great cook by any means but her mother had taught her the simple staples of a wholesome American meal: eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice to wash it down. With the grin of a mischievous schoolboy Oliver suggested they add a little something extra to their morning beverage to "celebrate". As she plated the food he topped off each of their cups with a hearty splash of vodka. _Now we're talking, _Marilyn thought grimly.

"Breakfast is served," she said in a voice so bright it actually surprised her. She slid the steaming dish before him and, on a mad impulse, smoothed the hair from his forehead to press a kiss there. Hell, she was already acting the part of his lover, why not go the extra mile and really _sell_ it?

The doctor seized her by the wrist before she could draw away and pulled her roughly back to him, the impish smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I knew you'd take care of me," he murmured, and caught her lower lip in his teeth just as she'd done to him before. Oliver appeared to be a fast learner; he sucked gently, eyes locking with hers, as a warm rush of pleasure flooded her body.

When he released her Marilyn all but fell into the dining room chair, flushed. This reaction left him quite pleased with himself and he began to eat ravenously. She noted - not for the first time - how he tended to resemble a wolf, sleek and powerful and so very dangerous.

If he was a wolf, what did that make her? Little Red Riding Hood?

The thought made her want to laugh wildly but she bit it back, unsure if she started laughing that she'd ever be able to stop. Instead she took a big gulp of her orange juice (now a screwdriver) and relished the sharp tang of vodka against her tongue.

Oliver took a large bite out of a piece of toast with burnt edges. She cringed, noting how black some of the bread had become, and felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment in herself. Her mother had taught her better than that.

"I'm sorry about the bread," Marilyn said, poking the sad singed pieces of toast on her own plate. "You don't have to eat it."

He smiled crookedly, the very picture of an impetuous young boy, and shoved the uneaten portion into his mouth whole. Crumbs peppered the front of his sleeveless white undershirt as the doctor worked his jaw around what was undoubtedly far too big a bite.

It took her so by surprise that Marilyn let out a breathless little giggle before clapping at hand over her mouth, still not convinced the hysteria had passed. Though difficult to admit, he certainly had a sort of charm about him.

"It's good," he managed through a mouthful of bread, then swallowed and beamed at her. "Really." Oliver lifted his glass of orange juice, tilting his head towards hers. She followed suit by lifting hers as well.

"Cheers," she said, that wild urge to laugh fluttering through her again, but she pushed it aside and downed half the screwdriver in one mighty gulp. When she set her drink on the table she saw him watching her, a predator examining its prey. She ignored this and reached across the table to brush the breadcrumbs from his chest.

"Messy!" Marilyn chided gently.

His eyes met hers, intense and serious, but that child's smile kept playing around the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you, mommy."

The words caused a strange chill to ripple through her but it was nothing new; she could be surprised no more, everything that shocked and terrified her past self was now simply old hat. Of course this handsome young doctor had issues with his mother, and did that really make him so different from any other man she'd slept with in the past?

_Don't be smart, Marilyn, _her own mother's voice scolded sternly somewhere in the recesses of her mind. But hadn't being smart gotten her this far?

"I was thinking," Oliver said suddenly, breaking the reverie she'd lost herself in, "that perhaps we should visit the asylum."

Marilyn felt the hairs rise on her arms at the thought of leaving this house to see the sunlight but she played it cool and moved eggs around her plate with the tines of her fork.

"Oh?" she murmured, innocent.

"Yes." The doctor put down his own silverware and stared hungrily at her across the table. "You need to meet her. To _see _her. She's very smart, we can't take that for granted." She assumed he was talking about Lana. It was the only name any of _them _had been given, and it was a powerful one. When a serial killer looked you in the eyes and demanded that you weren't _like her_ you developed a very keen sense of who _her_ was, and you avoided it like the plague.

"I can do that," Marilyn said cautiously, pretending to be preoccupied with her breakfast. Her brain was spinning in her skull but she took care to not let it show. After a brief pause she continued, "I'll need my clothes, Oliver. My makeup. I can't go in there looking like this." She emphasized her last word by plucking at the cheap cotton nightgown at her neck.

Thredson's eyes flashed momentarily, but it passed. He forced a smile to surface on his lips and she noted the strain.

"I see," he said.

_Getting too smart for your own good, Marilyn? _her mother's voice taunted, and she began to backpedal frantically.

"I just mean," she assured him, spearing a hunk of egg at the end of her fork, "a nightgown would perhaps stand out in an asylum. Or, more importantly, it _wouldn't_—not for a visitor."

The darkness cleared from his face at once and the smile became more genuine.

"Ah, I _see,"_ he repeated, his voice notably warmer than before. "You need your street clothes. I understand. You need to… blend in with the normal crowd."

"Yes!" Marilyn dropped the fork full of eggs she never intended to eat. "I need to blend in!" The doctor's smile was suddenly so much kinder; she sensed she'd crossed the bridge between ally and enemy very quickly, and in perhaps just enough time.

"I'll bring you what you need," Oliver said, finally focusing back on the cooling breakfast before him. "Then we'll go to Briarcliff. It's my day off, but I'll tell them I needed a file. On Kit Walker, perhaps – I hear he's gotten himself in a bit of trouble recently." He smirked, clearly proud of himself. Marilyn tried not to think about what this might mean; that was a locked door she simply couldn't afford to open.

"Thank you," she told him, and already the thoughts of fresh air and sunshine and something other than this hideous nightgown were filling her brain like bees in a hive. She paused, finished her screwdriver, then caught his eyes with hers provocatively. "Oliver?"

The lenses of his glasses glinted her pale, pretty face back at her.

"Yes, Marilyn?"

She watched herself smile in the reflection.

"I want something in red."

* * *

The doctor allowed her to ride with the window down. She couldn't take breaths deep enough to satisfy her craving for the sweet autumn air, and it was a difficult temptation to resist sticking her entire head out like an excited puppy.

It was a bright fall day; she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a more beautiful blue sky in her entire life. Marilyn looked to her left and saw Oliver smiling as they drove. He was handsome in his work suit, clean-shaven and trim. She'd been given a melon-red wiggle dress to wear – high-cut at the collar, fairly modest for what typically hung in her closet – and had taken time to style her thick blonde hair into a stylish updo.

Here they were, a dashing doctor with his pretty young female companion, driving through the New England scenery, admiring the fiery colors of changing leaves. The whole thing felt so… normal.

As if sensing her thoughts (as he was so apt to do), Thredson put his hand on her knee without making eye contact. He was humming to himself.

Marilyn felt a slow heat building inside her at his touch. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince herself that he had no effect on her, she was simply playing his sinful games to survive. Her traitorous body told a different story.

Behind dark cat-eye sunglasses she closed her eyes. Without turning from the window Marilyn spread her legs and placed her hand on his, urging his fingers down the creamy skin of her inner thigh.

She heard the doctor take in a sharp breath but otherwise he didn't react. Her lips twitched into a small smirk as she moved his hand towards the warm heat of her sex. As usual, he'd provided her no underwear.

When his fingertips touched her there they both made little noises of pleasure but Oliver withdrew unexpectedly, returning his grip to the steering wheel.

"Later," he told her sternly.

Marilyn found herself oddly bereft, unused to being rejected by her captor-turned-lover. She pursed her red-stained lips into a pout. Thredson kept driving, the set of his jaw now tense.

Without thinking she abruptly unbuckled her belt and scooted across the bench seat, pressing her body against his. She felt him stiffen as her hand trailed lightly across the fabric of his pants, over the growing erection in his lap.

"Later, baby?" she purred in his ear, and began to gently nibble at the lobe, taking care to not smudge her lipstick there. At once Oliver grunted and grabbed her leg with surprising strength. He forced the hem of her short dress past her knee and massaged the soft muscle at her inner thigh, working his way towards the spot that was now hot and pulsing from his touch. Marilyn spread her legs further, pushing her hips towards his fingers, but the doctor suddenly shoved her away.

She hit the passenger door with a gentle thud. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, yet the rebuff stung like salt rubbed in some deep inner wound.

"Damn it, Marilyn, not _now!"_ he barked, running a hand nervously over his perfectly-coiffed hair. She stared at him from her side of the car and willed away the strange tears threatening to spill behind her dark sunglasses.

After a moment he glanced from the road to scan her face. Her mouth must've given her away because Oliver looked immediately repentant, his brows meeting in a concerned frown.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, reaching for her again. Marilyn sat there, stiff, as he stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "It's Lana. She makes me crazy. And bringing you to Briarcliff… it just…" His eyes searched her briefly before looking back to the road. "…I'm on edge."

She remained silent. He returned his hand to the steering wheel.

They drove.

When they arrived at the asylum at last she was struck by the building itself. Sure, she'd heard about people who ended up in Briarcliff, but she'd assumed it was more like a hospital or a standard medical facility, not this hulking brick monstrosity. The windows stared blankly at her like blind unseeing eyes.

Oliver parked the car and exhaled a short little breath through his nose.

"Maybe we should go home," he said sullenly. Marilyn whipped her head to look at him, alarmed. She had felt her will to escape ebbing day by day but somewhere inside her chest a tiny hope still survived; while it was unlikely she'd make it out any time soon, she'd known a trip to the asylum was precious time outside his house, and at least some small opportunity to be seen or recognized by a bystander. If they turned the car around now even that measly shred of hope was gone, perhaps forever.

"No, Oliver, we've come all this way." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "I have to meet her. Remember? How else are we going to do this... together?" On the word 'this' she gave him a little squeeze, a wordless reminder of what they'd discussed in bed that morning - and that did it. The anxiety melted away from his handsome face as he recalled the promise she'd made him in bed while sweat cooled on their exhausted bodies.

"You're right," he murmured, and pressed a sudden kiss to her forehead. "You're right. Let's go. But-" Thredson took her chin in his hand, forcing her eyes to meet his. "-you must listen to me. Every word. This is my place of business, and I simply cannot afford any... unpleasantness."

"I understand," she said at last when he refused to release her face.

"Good." The look in his eyes was unreadable; he let her go and plucked the keys from the ignition. "Let's go."

* * *

She wasn't prepared for the noise when she entered the towering doors of the asylum. Again, the idea that this was a calm, orderly building of white walls and pleasant silence couldn't be farther from the truth; the drab brick seemed to permeate from the inside out and patients staggered around apparently unsupervised. Marilyn found herself sticking close to Oliver, the most familiar thing in this strange new environment.

He appeared unfazed. The doctor checked his watch, then turned to her, already distracted by his work.

"Wait here," he said in a low voice, glancing around for eavesdroppers. "Lana may be on lockdown. Or in electroshock therapy, depending on her mood." A queer smile twitched at the corners of his lips; he seemed a thousand miles away.

"Oliver," she said uneasily, but he was already moving from her, climbing the wicked-looking spiral staircase two steps at a time.

Marilyn rubbed her upper arms, anxious, and tried to not seem so out of place. Why in god's name had she demanded to wear red? She felt like a big flaming bull's-eye right in the middle of insanity's playground.

She found a wall to back against, hoping to not draw the attention of any inmates, particularly the ones mumbling to themselves. Across the room she spotted a man with his hand down his pants seated next to a woman drawing snot from her nose to wipe across the forehead of the ragdoll in her lap.

"Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?" Marilyn whispered, and all at once she decided it ended here, she was leaving, the doctor be damned. She was just as much prisoner to him as these people were to their madness. She would have to be crazy to stay.

Her black heels clicked against the cement floor as she tried to hurry towards the exit without being noticed. She threw one last glance over her shoulder, searching the staircase for her handsome kidnapper, and stopped short.

Hovering near the stairs was now a woman, one Marilyn seemed to recognize as if she'd seen her in a dream. She was wearing the asylum's regulation faded blue jumper and a look on her face like she was simultaneously lost and angry. Brown hair hung limply to her shoulders but Marilyn could've sworn she'd seen it swept into some smooth mod style, perhaps in a photograph, or-

It hit her like a freight train. Was Oliver's Lana truly Lana Winters, the local reporter? What was she doing here? And how had she come from the dark basement bedroom to another place of such horror and insanity?

Before she knew it her feet were taking her across the room towards the woman Marilyn was sure had written endless recipes clipped and sent by her meddling mother only to be glanced at briefly then relegated to the trash can.

"Lana? Lana Winters?" she said tentatively, and the woman's head snapped up, a fierce animal panic glinting in her eyes.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"I... I read all your articles," Marilyn lied, simply not knowing how to start this conversation. She saw the other woman's body relax a little but her guarded nature remained.

"Great," Lana said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Which one really inspired you? Was it the bundt cake or the fettuccini alfredo?"

"Neither, I guess." Marilyn laughed in a way she hoped was disarming. "I'm not a very good cook. My mother, she sent me your recipes hoping I'd improve, but I'm afraid I'm a lost cause." A reluctant smile surfaced on Lana's face.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said conspiratorially, motioning for Marilyn to lean closer. When she did, Lana whispered, "So am I."

They both laughed. Someone watching might have assumed they were old friends meeting after years apart, falling right back into step with one another. Then Lana looked over her shoulder anxiously as if checking for enemies. She reminded Marilyn of a rat in a cage.

"You seem sane," she said offhandedly, her desperate animal eyes meeting Marilyn's again. "I need your help. I need to get out of here. I don't belong here. And there's a man, a murderer on the loose-"

"Bloody Face," she finished for her, and Lana's expression froze.

"You know," she whispered, then grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her up the winding spiral staircase. Marilyn remembered Oliver's command to wait for him but she felt light-headed and weak, like life was rushing at her in a thundering tidal wave and she was simply swept along for the ride.

"Wait," she begged, dully aware that this woman was pulling her deeper into the labyrinth, that another opportunity for escape had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, that she was _allowing_ herself to be drawn back in, oh god, what if she _was_ crazy? What if she belonged here like the rest of them?

When they reached the top of the stairs Lana glanced around again, always on the lookout, then pulled her into the shadows near some closed office doors.

"What do you know?" Lana demanded, her grip tight on Marilyn's shoulders. When she didn't respond the reporter shook her once, hard. "Damn it, what do you _know_? As far as the public's concerned Bloody Face has been taken care of, so you shouldn't know anything, but you do, I can _tell_."

Marilyn's mouth opened and closed uselessly. She was utterly taken off guard. She should want to confide in this woman, tell her that she had been a prisoner too, that she would help her. But she didn't. She couldn't.

Suddenly a hot flash of pain spread across her cheek. It took several seconds before Marilyn realized she'd been slapped.

She looked at the woman in the blue jumper in disbelief, bringing her palm to her stinging face, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. Lana's eyes were hard, bright. There was something in them that she both feared and loathed.

"He's my neighbor," Marilyn said at last, her voice tight.

"Who?" Lana demanded, shaking her again, and Marilyn felt hate rising in her like bile at the back of a throat. How dare this woman talk to her as if she were a stupid child! Lana may have escaped Bloody Face but she now was here in this asylum, getting electroshock therapy and meals without sharp silverware. She hadn't figured it out, the effortless way you could fold to meet his demands and still remain somewhat whole. But Marilyn had. Marilyn still had her skin and she was allowed to ride with the window down and she'd been in his bed with no heavy iron chain around her ankle.

"Oliver," she told the reporter, whose face lit up at the name.

"Yes, yes!" Lana cried, but something in Marilyn's eyes must have told her more because her expression darkened like a great cloud had fallen over it. "Wait. _How_ do you know him?"

It was as if a venom had been pooling inside her ever since the handsome doctor slipped between her legs and into her life - perhaps even before that. Years of listening to her mother tell her she was cheap and drunk barflies tell her she was a tease and friends telling her she'd never land a husband with _that_ attitude. She felt a deep and sudden urge to lunge at this desperate woman, take her by the throat, and squeeze.

"We're lovers," Marilyn murmured, and a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. A look of horror crept over Lana's face like someone who's just realized the nightmare is continuing, they're still asleep, they haven't woken in the safety of their own bed after all.

"Jesus Christ," Lana whispered, releasing her shoulders.

"Oh, I've been in the basement, if that's what you're asking," Marilyn went on, and took a step towards the reporter, who backed away with a shuffle of her cheap asylum shoes. "Did he use a sedative on you? He did for me. 'To keep me calm', he said. Seems like after you escaped he needed to try again."

"It's not my fault," Lana said, her voice dry and cracking. "I didn't - I can help you-"

"It wasn't that hard, you stupid bitch," Marilyn heard herself saying pleasantly, and it was like she was in a fog, her heart was a hot stone at the back of her throat, she was just so _angry_. "You just have to play along. He's nice enough when you behave."

Lana's eyes were wide in her skull; they darted left and right, seeking help, but the corridor was empty.

"You don't know what you're saying-"

Marilyn took another step towards the scrambling reporter, relishing the fear on her face. She hadn't even touched her yet. It felt so good to be the one in control for a change.

"I took your place," she hissed, her heels making soft clicks that echoed through the vast stone hallway. "Now he wants _me_, and he wants _you_ dead. And you know what?" Marilyn stopped as she cornered Lana against a closed door that read ADMINISTRATION in thick black letters on the glass. She licked her lips, smiled, and placed her mouth near the terrified woman's ear. "I think I'll help him."

Lana shoved her away with surprising strength. Marilyn stumbled a little, wobbling on her black pumps, then caught herself against the cool brick of the adjacent wall.

"You're sick," the reporter spat at her, glaring.

"No," Marilyn huffed, her breath coming in short spurts. She felt like she'd taken a drag from one of her joints but this high was all-natural. It was adrenaline. It was hate. It was the high of a survivor. "I'm _special."_

Lana laughed, a humorless bark that resonated in the emptiness around them.

"You poor, foolish little girl," she said wonderingly. "You think he's, what, your boyfriend? That just because he hasn't flayed you alive yet he's _attached_ to you somehow?" The reporter moved slowly to her left and Marilyn countered as if they were doing some bizarre waltz in the asylum hall. Lana's full lips pulled back in a sneer. "Let me tell you something – it's only just beginning for you. In the end, you'll be exactly where _I _am." She emphasized her words by grasping her stomach with one rigid hand.

Lana's brown eyes met Marilyn's blue ones as a moment of understanding passed between them.

"In hell," she finished, and made a break for the stairs behind her.

Marilyn watched her go, still vibrating with rage and shaken by Lana's ominous warning.

A hand clamped over her mouth; she was pulled back into a hard warm body, one she knew all too well.

"Oh, Marilyn," Oliver breathed in her ear, his lips grazing her skin, "you've been very bad, haven't you?"


	9. Chapter 9

She struggled to speak but the palm of his large hand kept her mouth firmly shut. It was probably for the best - there wasn't much she could say to belay his anger anyway.

The doctor pulled her body tight against his, one arm snaked around her waist, his breath hot in her ear.

"What did I tell you, Marilyn?" he whispered. "I told you to listen to me, and what did you do?" She wasn't sure how to respond, seeing as she _couldn't_, but Oliver didn't seem interested in her answers at the moment. Marilyn felt the arm around her waist relax as his hand passed slowly over her flat stomach.

"Were you trying to escape?" Thredson murmured, his low voice sending shivers down her spine. The words were heavy with an unspoken threat; was this finally it? Had she gone too far at last?

Maybe it was for the better. She could barely recognize herself these days.

Marilyn shook her head as much as his grip would allow.

"No, perhaps not." He drew his palm along her midsection then down her right thigh, past the hem of her short red dress. The asylum's cool brick walls echoed back nothing but the labored sounds of their breathing as the doctor thrust his hand between her legs and drove two fingers deep into her warm, wet center.

She bucked against him but he had her where he wanted her. There was simply no leverage for her to break away - she was trapped in his arms.

"You disobeyed me," Oliver said, beginning a slow tortuous pump of the lithe fingers she both craved and feared. "I can't allow transgressions, Marilyn, you know that."

She whined quietly into his palm. It took no time at all for his skilled hands to drive her wild.

His thumb kept brushing the tiny bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs as he stimulated her to the very core. The doctor's ministrations were leisurely and deliberate; he had no interest in making her come any time soon. This was a punishment.

Oliver leaned his nose against the nape of her neck and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of shampoo in her hair. Marilyn could feel him growing hard in the small of her back.

"What am I going to do with you?" he said thoughtfully into her skin.

A chill began to spread through her body like ice in the veins. Had he asked the same question of the women who'd been found flayed and headless? Was she really special after all, or was Lana right to laugh in her face?

No. It wasn't over. She wasn't going to end up like _them_.

Marilyn reached swiftly behind her and grasped the doctor's rigid erection in her left hand, rolling it in her palm with slow careful squeezes.

It took the doctor so by surprise he loosened his grip on her mouth; she seized this opportunity and jerked her chin up, wrestling her face free to look at him over her shoulder.

"Two can play that game, Oliver," she whispered huskily, and a fire ignited in his eyes that nearly overwhelmed her.

Thredson's body tensed and twitched as she massaged the tight bulge at his groin. His fingers kept working between her legs. For one long wicked moment they remained in a sexual standoff.

He licked his lips then placed them next to her ear again.

"Miss Jackson, I need to see you in my office," he growled. She felt a nudge at her back as he urged her to move forward, towards a door with his name etched on the glass.

And speaking of names, how exactly had he known hers? The strange fleeting sense of being stalked like prey crossed her mind once more but she barely had time to consider this as the doctor walked her slowly across the hall, the two of them entangled at their most private of places.

When they reached the door he grasped the knob, turned, and all but threw her inside. He moved quickly across the threshold and with a flick of his wrist the door slammed behind them like a gunshot.

Oliver came at her like a warrior in battle; he forced her against the wall of his impeccably clean office and went straight for her mouth, mashing their lips together in a rough passionate kiss. Marilyn wrapped her arms around his neck and met his tongue with hers, welcoming it, craving it.

He forced the hem of her dress past her hips and placed his hands on her bare behind, lifting her off her feet. Using the wall as leverage the doctor released his straining cock from his pants and drove into her with one swift motion.

She pulled her mouth from his to groan softly. Gravity was working in their favor - it felt like he was thrusting deeper and deeper into her hot slick center with each movement of his slender hips.

One of her black pumps slipped from her foot and fell to the floor with a quiet thud. She flipped the other off effortlessly and wrapped her legs around him, drawing him even closer, creating delicious friction between them.

Oliver's brows were twisted with fierce concentration as he pumped into her, his fingernails digging into the tender flesh of her bottom. Her hands grasped at his white button-up shirt, knocking loose a pen from the breast pocket, until they found the thin black tie hanging at his neck. She seized him by it and pulled his face close to hers; their eyes locked and for the first time in her captivity, Marilyn felt like a wolf too.

"I hate her," she said breathlessly.

Oliver's lips spread into a sly, sinister grin.

"I knew you would," he huffed, and lifted her into his arms, still buried deep between her legs. The doctor spun her in a half-circle until they were over his desk; with a sweep of his arm he cleared away papers and pencils and psychology books, which scattered haphazardly across the office floor.

Thredson slammed her against the smooth wooden desktop and continued pumping his hips ravenously. The new position allowed him to hit a tender spot deep inside her wet, wanting sex, and a fresh burst of pleasure exploded within her.

"Oliver," Marilyn moaned, perhaps too loudly. He pressed two long fingers to her lips in a brisk shushing gesture but she saw the effect hearing his name had on him; he was on the edge of ecstasy and trying desperately to hold on.

She was nearly there herself but something inside relished pushing him over the brink. Giving him a seductive little smile, she opened her mouth and began to suck gently on one of the fingers he'd used to quiet the sounds of her lust.

The doctor let out a groan that she was sure the inmates heard all the way downstairs but then it didn't matter because he was hitting that sinfully sweet spot deep in her core and Marilyn was coming, she was awash in a sea of pleasure and raking her nails down the dark hair along his forearms.

The warmth she'd grown to welcome spread slowly in the secret place between her legs as Thredson thrust his hips hard once, twice, and then came to a full stop, struggling to catch his stolen breath.

* * *

He began to withdraw but Marilyn hooked a leg around his waist and pulled him close again, savoring the way he felt inside. Chest heaving, Oliver looked down at her with an unnamable expression of desire and darkness.

He placed the palm of one long-fingered hand on the exposed skin of her midsection. The image of Lana, pale and furious and gripping her own stomach as a warning, flashed through her brain like lightning in an unlit room.

Marilyn let her leg fall so he could pull away. He hesitated, staring at the soft milky skin above her navel, then took a step backwards and set to composing himself in silence.

When they left his office the hallway was still deserted. No one had heard them after all.

With one strong hand at her lower back, Oliver guided her carefully down the spiral staircase. Marilyn tried to keep her gaze straight ahead but at their descent she couldn't help searching for the reporter amongst the shuffling, drooling inmates.

She was in the doorway of what appeared to be a common room. The look in her eyes as they approached could've set fire to kindling.

Marilyn met her glare for one brief moment and smiled.

Then they marched through the asylum doors and into the outside world, a place Lana was no longer free to go.

* * *

When they were finally in the dull, brown expanse of his living room, the question that had been smoldering in the pit of her stomach finally surfaced.

"Is Lana pregnant?" Marilyn asked quietly.

The doctor focused on releasing his neck from the constraints of his black tie. He licked his lips. He refused to meet her eyes with his.

"She was," Oliver murmured at last.

She nodded, turning the words over in her brain like worry stones.

"Am I pregnant?" she said, her voice flat and unreadable. Thredson froze in position, breathing heavily, and finally tossed the necktie to the ground.

"I don't know. It's too early to tell." He paused for a moment as his dark eyes ran up and down her body like the small sticky hands of pickpockets. "I hope so."

Marilyn considered this. She picked absently at the fuzzed material of the couch cushion.

When a long moment of silence passed Thredson fished a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and placed it between his lips. Fetching a matchbook from the coffee table, he struck one against the black outer strip. She watched as it flamed to life.

Oliver lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, the cherry glowing bright in the early evening gloom.

"Well," he said, the word producing a large puff of smoke, "it's time to go back downstairs."

Her head snapped up to look at him in surprise.

"What?"

He took another deep breath, sucking hard on his cigarette, then placed it gingerly in the ashtray on the coffee table.

"You disobeyed me, Marilyn. You've broken my trust. There must be consequences."

Before she could react properly he was already moving towards her, one strong hand seizing her by the wrist. Marilyn tried to bolt but he was too quick; he turned the force of her struggles against her and soon she was slung over his shoulder like nothing more than a sack of flour.

"Oliver, please, no," she begged, immediately in tears at the idea of going back into that dark lonesome place. "Please don't take me there, baby, I'll be good, I swear, please don't, _please _don't –"

"Don't make this harder than it is for me," Oliver grunted as they descended the stairs.

There were sobs and murmured words of warning but ultimately she ended where she'd began, in the same lonely bed with the same heavy chain around her ankle, and once again he left her there.

But this time was different.

This time, she had a plan.


	10. Chapter 10

Time passed and she was careful. She was so careful.

Thus far it seemed Marilyn was not pregnant as the doctor had so hoped. Her flat stomach remained just that and never rounded out to the tight drum of a tummy she'd spotted on Lana. She remained vigilant, patient.

She behaved herself. She listened obediently. Soon she was out of the basement again and upstairs where she could cook dinner and take showers and see the sky.

She waited.

Her moment finally came one late fall evening when they were enjoying an after-supper drink and the latest episode of "The Addams Family". Why it was her moment was unapparent; Marilyn simply caught a glance of Oliver's sly wolf smile as he laughed at a joke and that was it.

She sipped at her martini delicately, choosing to wait for the commercial break before striking.

"Oliver?" she said softly, and he met her gaze.

"Mmm?" He raised his thick eyebrows above the black rims of his eyeglasses.

"May I smoke?" The sleek silver case sat between them on the coffee table. She looked at it briefly, then back to him as if to make her point clear.

"Of course," he said, fetching it for her. Thredson clicked the case open and removed one long white joint from the replenished supply.

She opened her mouth flirtatiously. He smiled at her, always encouraged by seduction, and placed the marijuana cigarette between her lips. Marilyn leaned forward as the doctor clicked a flame to life on his elegant lighter and inhaled deeply.

The rush flowed through her immediately and she struggled to stay in control; this was part of it, it was necessary, but oh god was it hard to remain focused, to not give in to the drug's promise of pleasure and relief.

Marilyn exhaled, a cloud of slow thick smoke rising into the air. Thredson sat silently beside her on the sofa, his eyes locked on her. Not for the first time she recognized the look of intent curiosity on his face.

But this time was different.

She took another measured breath of the lit joint and tilted her head back, holding in the smoke, savoring it. When she finally blew out it took several long seconds to empty her lungs of the potent haze.

He watched, fascinated.

"Oliver?" she said at last. Marilyn narrowed her eyes, tipped her head towards his, and smiled. "Would you like to try some?"

The doctor looked alarmed; he shook his head once briskly, his brow furrowing into a frown.

"No, I couldn't. It would be… unprofessional." His eyes flicked to the joint in her fingers.

She began to crawl towards him like a cat, slinky and sensual, closing the gap between them on the couch.

"Not even one time?" Marilyn asked as her breasts pushed against his arm through the cotton nightgown she hated. "What could one time hurt?"

"I could lose my job, Marilyn," he said testily, but the interest was still there, as visible as the telltale tenting of his pressed work pants.

"As if your _other_ extracurricular activities don't pose the same threat?" she teased. Oliver stiffened at her words yet she continued to climb coyly into his lap.

When he didn't respond Marilyn pursed her lips into a sullen pout.

"Baby, I know you'd like it." She slipped an arm around his neck and forced him to look at her. "Just one little hit. No one has to know."

Thredson remained silent until she began to nibble at the lobe of his ear, urging a low groan from him.

"I think it could bring us even closer," she whispered, and he pulled back to study her face for a few long terrible moments, the type of moments where she feared he could see right through her, down to the person she feared she _really_ was, a person like him.

"How do I do it?" the doctor asked at last, timidly.

"I'll help you, baby," Marilyn murmured.

She lit the joint again and took in yet another deep breath, hoping that this hit wouldn't be the one that sent her over the edge, and motioned for him to lean towards her.

When he obeyed she took his face gently in the palm of one hand and placed her lips close to his until they were just barely touching. Marilyn opened her mouth and instinctively Oliver did the same; she exhaled slowly, carefully, being sure not to overwhelm him the first time.

He took the cue and inhaled, but he could only hold the smoke for a few seconds. The doctor began coughing raucously and she rubbed her palm in soothing circles along his suited back.

Oliver caught his breath, then looked to her, eyes ablaze as the new sensations washed through him.

"Another," he said in a low, throaty voice, but she put a palm on his chest and set the joint into the ashtray.

"Not yet, baby, you need to take it slow." Marilyn guided him back to a leaning position, sinking them both into the plush of the couch cushions. She scanned his face and licked her lips.

"How do you feel?" she asked, the very same question he'd asked her who knew how many days ago.

_"Incredible," _he breathed, his hands flexing and unflexing against the smooth material of his dress pants. Marilyn ran her fingers along the curve of his jaw.

She knew just how it felt, especially the first time. It was like the aftershock of an orgasm seeping from the top of your head all the way to your toes, a pleasant fog of simple euphoria clearing all the muck and misery from your brain. You felt powerful. You felt present. You felt _special._

"It feels good, doesn't it?" she asked softly, her other hand finding its way to the growing erection in his lap. She didn't grip it, not at first; instead, she brushed her fingertips lightly along the seam of his fly, just barely teasing the surface.

He wasn't ready for the conflict of sexual pleasure with the drug-induced one, and she knew it. His hips bucked instantly into her touch.

"God," Oliver hissed, trying to contain himself, but Marilyn could see he was already gone, his eyes rolling in ecstasy behind their lids.

"You see what you do to me?" she whispered huskily in his ear, growing bolder in her touch. She rolled his throbbing length in her palm with long, slow strokes. "This is how you make me feel."

"Oh god," he repeated, breathless.

"Make love to me, Oliver," she said urgently, and his eyes made their way to hers. He was stunted in his reaction time, slow and sluggish, but she knew he was far from stupid. It was like petting a vicious tiger that had been shot with tranquilizers. There were still the teeth to consider.

"More," the doctor insisted. Marilyn pretended to consider this as though she were concerned.

"It's your first time."

_"More,"_ Oliver growled, one strong hand coming up to gently grip her throat. She closed her eyes and made a little purring noise, arching her body towards his, then reached for the ashtray. The pressure of his fingertips on her neck ignited a blazing fire between her legs she tried desperately to ignore. It was a distraction she couldn't afford.

"All right. But only one," she said, her tone that of a cautious mother. With a flick of the silver lighter she relit her joint, sucked deep, and leaned towards him again. His mouth popped open obediently; Marilyn exhaled in one long slow breath, giving him every last bit of the sweet skunky smoke.

He held it in longer this time. She saw his brows knit with concentration before he breathed the pot out in one giant puff.

"Jesus," he gasped. Oliver pawed for her shoulder to ground himself, his eyes darting uselessly around the living room. She knew the marijuana had taken hold; he was a lightweight, and as much as he'd coughed, the drug was sure to go straight to his brain.

"Make love to me," Marilyn repeated, soft and insistent. It took a moment for him to put the pieces together – first her face, then her hand, then the warm place between her legs that was currently bumping against his knee.

He was hers to mold. She climbed atop him and straddled his hips, smiling, ready. Her fingers worked at the zipper of his pants.

With a low buzzing sound his work slacks came undone and his erection bulged to the surface, begging for her touch. The doctor jerked his hips towards her nimble hands. He was baring his teeth in a humorless predatory grin but she wasn't sure he was aware of it.

She opened the slit of his plain boxer shorts with a quick spread of two fingers, his desperate arousal popping out at once. Marilyn began to caress the hot skin of his member with the silky curves of her palm, taking her time, moving her hand in such a way that she knew he felt every stroke like a lightning bolt through his body.

He whimpered weakly, lost in sensation, and for a moment she felt sorry for him.

Then she sought his parts with hers; the hot wet center of her aching sex closed around Oliver's erection, enveloping him in unexpected warmth.

"Fuck, Marilyn," Oliver moaned, the antics of the Addams Family lost in the sounds of their bodies moving together, a slick strange pumping noise.

"Oh baby," she purred, matching the desperate thrust of his hips.

Marilyn was dismayed to find she couldn't ignore the sinful sensations as Oliver made sweet stoned love to her. The distracting throb of the aching bud between her legs was constant, demanding.

She wanted to ride him to orgasm but she pulled back, her brow creasing, her hips slowing to a halt over his rock hard arousal.

"Don't stop," Oliver begged, his hands flying up to move her lower half in a solid steady rhythm over him.

Marilyn resisted the movement and simply kept him trapped in the hot space between her thighs.

"Tell me you love me," she said, her eyes locked on the doctor's strained, handsome face.

"Oh, I love you," Oliver stammered, yanking roughly on her hips, but Marilyn held fast; he was given no pleasure, no friction to push him over the edge. She began loosening the tie at his throat.

"Again," she demanded.

"I love you," he all but begged, running his palms down her thighs, pleading with her wordlessly for relief. "God, Marilyn, you know that. You _know _I love you."

Marilyn could feel him in her deepest core, hot and throbbing and so hard, and she knew this was the time. It was time to give Oliver the simple release he wanted and to use that release against him.

She started her hips into a quick, short jerk, stimulating his aching erection; it was a move she used often but never failed to drive the doctor over the edge. The relief in his eyes was palpable and as he closed them, she pulled the undone tie from his starched white collar.

Recognizing the glow of an approaching orgasm overtaking his beautiful face, Marilyn ran her fingers through the doctor's thick dark hair. She knew there was little time left and began drawing her nails delicately over the sensitive skin of his scalp.

Oliver whined like a lost puppy and came helplessly into her wet sex, twitching and convulsing, grasping her arms like a man drowning.

She tried to pretend she was fine but one of his final thrusts was too much. She came almost as soon as he did; a small noise escaped her lips, the sound of a quiet little mouse or a baby bird.

Even as she came, the sweet sensations of orgasm rolling through her very core, Marilyn did what she'd prepared herself to do and stretched the necktie tight between her fists. Oliver's eyes were closed. He was still coming, or at least coming down, and he was miles away.

She locked her legs around his hips and braced herself. She put her hands behind his neck, pulling the tie slowly towards her like a slingshot.

She twisted the thin black necktie, now a garrote, in one quick savage motion. It closed around his throat like a vise.

His eyes popped open at once. Thredson made a strangled sound of protest and began to struggle, but she was on top of him, her sexual embrace holding him in place.

Marilyn gritted her teeth and pulled tighter, willing herself not to give up, telling herself this was her last and only chance.

He clawed at the material around his neck and when he could get no leverage he reached for _her _neck, one strong hand closing around it like nothing. She yelped and tried to keep her hold on the tie but it was no use, he was simply so much stronger than she was.

There was a brief moment where their eyes locked. The realization of what she was doing to him flashed over his expression and it was enough to make Marilyn relax her stranglehold.

Before she knew it she was on her back on the ground; he'd narrowly missed the coffee table and she could feel the scratchy material of the carpet on her skin. Oliver had managed to fully reverse the move, putting her beneath him, but he was still miraculously hard and buried between her legs.

The grip around her throat loosened a little once she stopped struggling. The doctor kept her pinned in place as he coughed and fought for breath.

Marilyn just laid there, numb, prepared for him to finally kill her. They'd both known it would happen, it was just a matter of when.

And then the most extraordinary thing happened.

Oliver smiled.

It was not the smile of a man about to end her life. It was a smile of pride, of love.

"You're ready," he said when he'd finally caught his breath. His eyes shone with emotion and once again she could see the gleam of insanity behind them. "Jesus, I didn't think you'd ever get there. And yet, here you are."

Marilyn stared up at him, unmoving, unwilling to believe she could still be alive.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me," Oliver murmured, and to her shock he began rocking his hips against hers, his erection fading but still surprisingly hard. She moaned, her mind reeling, trying to catch up with what had happened in the last few short moments.

When he started to grow too soft from his recent orgasm, the doctor withdrew and replaced his member with two strong pumping fingers. Marilyn nearly cried out from the new sensation, one she simply wasn't ready for, oh god what had happened, what had gone so wrong, how could this really be her life?

His thumb gently circling her swollen clitoris, his fingers thrusting into her soft wet center, Oliver bent his head towards her chest and with his free hand pushed the cotton nightgown up to her neck.

"You can't kill me, Marilyn," he whispered, each breath a hot puff against her skin, "because you don't want to. And do you know why you don't want to?"

Before she could answer he inserted a third finger and by then she was just whimpering, utterly overcome, helpless in his hands at last.

"Because you're _mine," _the doctor growled, lowering his mouth to her breast and sucking hard. It was borderline painful, but it was sweet suffering; Marilyn felt the orgasm uncurling like slow fire in her loins and even then she wasn't ready for the pleasure that rocked her body wave after wave.

She came but he was not done.

He was not gentle.

And he was not through with her for a very, very long time.


	11. Epilogue

It was winter when Marilyn pulled the long elegant car into Briarcliff's graveled parking lot.

She cast her eyes nervously around the grounds, looking for anyone who might be witnessing her arrival, and hurried up the steep stone steps of the asylum. The guard just inside took no notice of her.

The light was falling fast. She knew she had to move quickly, before they closed their doors to visitors.

Lana was seated in the common room, staring at a large record player as it played "I Put A Spell On You" by Screamin' Jay Hawkins. That one had been a favorite in the bar where Marilyn had worked what seemed a thousand years ago.

She moved past the shuffling, mumbling inmates and slipped into a chair next to the despondent reporter.

"We don't have much time, so please hear me out," Marilyn whispered.

Lana's face grew cold like a frost of ice had spread across it.

"Get away from me."

"I get it, you have no reason to trust me, but please—" Marilyn placed a desperate hand on the other woman's arm, who withdrew like she'd been burned. "—I have something you need to hear, please, just listen."

"I'll call a guard," Lana said in a low voice.

"Fine, ruin a perfectly good chance to escape," Marilyn hissed, beginning to stand. The reporter bit her lip, conflicted, then tugged her back to a seated position.

"You have two minutes." Lana crossed her arms over her chest. Her form seemed a little rounder but Marilyn couldn't tell for sure beneath the shapeless hospital gown.

"Thank you." She snuck another look around the crowded common area and leaned closer to the reporter, who bent forward in turn. "I'm sorry. About the last time I was here. You were right, I'm a stupid little girl."

Lana frowned.

"Go on."

"He brainwashed me. I was confused. I was trying to make the best out of a bad situation, but…" Marilyn shook her head and laughed bitterly. "Jesus, listen to me. Even now I'm trying to minimize it." She locked eyes with Lana, steeling herself for the words that had to come out of her mouth. "The man kidnapped me. He kept me prisoner in his basement. He's a murderer. I know it, you know it."

"You told me you were going to help him kill me," Lana seethed. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because why else would I be here?" Marilyn gestured at the insanity surrounding them. "I stole his car. I should be on the highway heading in any direction _away _from that maniac but instead I'm here, like an idiot, talking to you. So either you want my help or you don't, but if you don't, you may as well tell me now so I can be on my way."

A long, tense moment passed between them. One of the patients coughed. Screamin' Jay Hawkins went on screaming.

"Why come back for me?" Lana demanded at last.

"Oliver said you had a tape. A confession?" She searched Lana's face for recognition of this fact and saw it. "Good. I was hoping he was telling the truth." Marilyn wet her lips with her tongue, then grasped the reporter's hand in hers. "I want you to leave with me. Bring the tape. I'll take you to the police station."

"Why?" Lana whispered, her brows knit in confusion.

"To _expose _him!" Marilyn nearly cried, and winced when her volume drew the attention of some of the more lucid inmates. "My testimony will be no good, I—" Her face burned with embarrassment; she broke eye contact with Lana to look at her shoes instead. "—we… it was consensual," she admitted quietly. "Too many times. It… I was confused."

"Go on," Lana urged, her reporter instinct latching onto something juicy.

"I'm an unreliable witness at best," Marilyn said testily. "But _you—"_ She gave Lana's hand a brief squeeze. "—_you're _a reporter, you can bring this monster down. I know you can."

"Where will you go?" Lana's eyes searched Marilyn's face. "You drop me off at the police station, then what?"

"I don't know," she said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Hollywood? I've heard it suits me."

There was another long moment where the lady reporter considered her words.

"How?" Lana whispered.

Marilyn chanced another glance around the room and reached into her large purse, producing a wrinkled dress and head scarf.

"Put this on. Visiting hours are over soon. You'll leave with me."

"Yeah, the last time I did that it worked out real well for me," Lana said cynically.

"Come with me or don't, I don't really give a shit." Marilyn's words gave the reporter a little start. "I'm serious. I'm offering you this chance to unmask Oliver Thredson as Bloody Face and be a hero, to have the story of a lifetime, but if you'd rather stay here and wait for it to get worse, please, be my guest."

She stood, only for a moment, before Lana tugged her back down again.

"No. No." Lana thought, then looked back to Marilyn's face. "When?"

"Now. Right now." Marilyn pushed the clothes into the reporter's eager hands. "Change, get the tape, and meet me in the front hall. We have to move quickly. We only get one shot at this."

The other women looked at the bundle in her arms, then Marilyn, then the door. She seemed to be weighing her options.

"I'll be as fast as I can," Lana said softly, and disappeared into the hallway beyond the common room.

* * *

When she reemerged Lana was wearing the wrinkled floral dress; the scarf was tied tight around her head, concealing the color of her hair and masking most of her face.

She walked with a confident stride out of the common room to Marilyn's side as she waited near the stairs. As the reporter approached Marilyn started walking. The other woman matched her stride at once.

"Just keep moving, don't look anyone in the eye," she whispered urgently. She kept her gaze on the car in the parking lot and hoped Lana was doing the same. "Do you have it?"

"Right here," Lana said softly, tapping the hard case of the reel-to-reel tape.

"Good, keep going." The soft clicks of her heels echoed through her skull as Lana's plain asylum shoes shuffled quietly beside her.

On an impulse, Marilyn put her hand on the small of Lana's back and guided her through the wide-open door into the world beyond.

No one stopped them.

* * *

They were only two blocks from the police station when Marilyn pulled over to the side of the road.

"Okay, here," she said, her eyes searching the area before them. The car was securely nestled in a side-alley near an abandoned gas station; no one was around, the bitter bite of winter's cold wind had seemingly kept everyone indoors this evening.

Marilyn watched as the reporter chewed gently on her full lower lip, hesitating.

"_Here," _she said again, louder this time.

"Okay," Lana murmured, and opened the car door, stepping slowly out into the night. She didn't close it at first and instead simply stood there. Her wide brown eyes observed Marilyn for a few long moments, who frowned and shook her head when the silence between them became too much to bear.

"Get to the police," she said at last. "Tell our story. Please."

The reporter seemed unsure of herself, but at the mention of her looming claim to fame she drew herself to her full height.

"I will," Lana promised, and slammed the car door shut. But she still didn't move. It was like she knew there was more, something else to say, and yet even with her gift for words she couldn't find it.

"Go," Marilyn mouthed desperately.

Lana took a few steps in the direction of the police station, then turned back to the car. She smiled faintly and opened her mouth as if to say the final line she'd been searching for.

Marilyn smiled back at her. Or rather, over her head at the man emerging from the shadows.

Lightning-quick, Oliver closed his fist over Lana's face, a cloth soaked in chloroform pressed insistently into her gasping mouth.

She took a few deep breaths before the rag and its powerful toxins seeped into her pliable brain. Lana fell silent and unmoving after several long moments of struggle.

The doctor gathered Lana's limp body into his arms like she was nothing more than a light bag of laundry. Marilyn obediently popped the trunk for him; she heard the heavy thunk the reporter made when Thredson dumped her unceremoniously into the back and slammed the lid closed.

He slipped into the front seat next to Marilyn, chanced a look around, then grabbed her face in his strong hands and kissed her roughly on the mouth.

"How'd I do, baby?" she said breathlessly when he released her.

"You were perfect," Oliver growled, running his palm over her hair in slow loving strokes. "Now drive."

She pulled the car back into traffic, a smile on her lips as the doctor slipped his skilled hand beneath the hem of her dress to reward her for a job well done.

* * *

When they reached Oliver's house Marilyn tried to preoccupy herself with the preparation of martinis so she didn't have to watch what he called his "process". She simply sipped her stiff drink and waited for him to return from the basement.

He had promised it would be easy, that he would help her this first time. Still, there was something about the transport of Lana's limp body from the trunk to the basement – something very final – that she couldn't bear to see. Between now and then there was still an option. There was still time.

After a two martinis and a long thick silence Marilyn heard a scream from the lower level's open door. Lana was awake. Soon Oliver would bound upstairs like an excited little boy to fetch her for the first round of fun.

She finished her third drink, set down the glass, and stood. One hand circled her stomach where a hard little bump had begun to form.

Marilyn wondered if she should tell him her good news.

A smile twitched at her lips as she decided no, best to wait. The doctor always got what he wanted in the end anyway.

There was another scream, then the sounds of muffled weeping.

She kept one hand on her belly and slowly approached the stairs.

It was time to take care of something.


	12. Author's Note

I wanted to thank everyone who's read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. When I was younger I used to write a ton of fanfiction (as demonstrated by the lengthy, terrible archive attached to this username, haha!) but as I grew up things got in the way of my writing, like boyfriends and college and a career.

I realized after watching this past season of American Horror Story that I missed being creative simply for the sake of being creative. I missed coming up with something purely for my own enjoyment; I missed taking a character so well-crafted and intriguing and allowing them to inspire me with something new (although maybe not altogether original).

I was really hesitant to post this to because I was worried I had lost my touch or, worse, perhaps hadn't grown as a writer at all since I was 15 years old. At first I considered just writing it for myself and keeping it in a secret folder on my computer to read whenever I was bored. But after some deep contemplation (and perhaps a few drinks) I decided to go for it, and the response has been so much more than I could've hoped for.

So thank you for going down this dark road with me, gasping at the twists and turns and wondering aloud where we would end up. Writing this story has really been a great experience for me, something I didn't even know I needed.

And who knows? Maybe the road hasn't ended quite yet.


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